


Glory Ride

by Enfilade



Series: Lost Night (Dratchtember) [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Decepticons Won, Bad Sex, Consent Issues, Demisexuality, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-25 16:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Deadlock and Ratchet share a hab suite, and a berth, on the starship "Lost Night."  It was bound to happen, and one night, it did.(This is an 18+ subplot/arc set during "Lost Night," so that people who don't read 18+ rated content can enjoy the main "Lost Night" story.)





	1. One Little Rev

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dratchetember 2019 "Free Space" entry.
> 
> I usually prefer to keep my fandom event entries rated PG-13 or less so they're available to the widest possible audience. 
> 
> I found myself wanting to do a NSFW story arc for the "Lost Night" story. I'm presenting it as a separate fic so that those who don't read 18+ fic can still enjoy the rest of "Lost Night." This is probably more "PWP" than my usual 18+ fic, if only because most of the plot is in "Lost Night."
> 
> This story would take place between Chapters 14 and 15 of "Lost Night."
> 
> #

One little rev of his engine had gotten Ratchet into this mess. 

He’d been sharing a hab—and a berth—with Deadlock for the better part of two weeks. So far, Deadlock had been a very enthusiastic cuddler, and he was definitely in the running for Most Improved Kisser aboard the _Lost Night_, but that was about as far as they’d gone. 

Ratchet hadn’t pressed the issue. When given the option, Deadlock had chosen a long-term courtship over a one-night stand. Ratchet had to admit this was, psychologically speaking, a promising sign. It meant Deadlock was thinking beyond merely sucking all the pleasure he could from the present moment, and giving some contemplation to the future—to _having _a future. 

Ratchet couldn’t risk Deadlock’s positive advancement just because he was an old pervert who hadn’t had his crankshaft cranked in a very long time. He suspected Deadlock had experienced more than enough partners who just wanted to frag and be done with it. The kid craved affection far more than a few overloads, and Ratchet genuinely cared about him. 

Still, Ratchet supposed the relationship would progress sooner or later. Their cuddling wasn’t exactly innocent. Deadlock did a lot of grinding against him at night, and Ratchet freely admitted to himself that he liked it. Ratchet had also let his hands wander over almost all of Deadlock’s frame, and Deadlock made some very encouraging noises when he did. 

Meanwhile, Ratchet had come on this quest for one last glory ride before he was forcibly retired by his failing hands. He was old, but he wasn’t _dead_, and his frame couldn’t help but notice that he was sharing a berth with a sleek and attractive speedster who liked to rub all over him at night. 

The fact was, Deadlock was _hot_, and sixteen nights into the quest, lying on his back in his berth with Deadlock stretched out on top of him, Ratchet lost control of himself and let his engine run a little loud and a little hot. 

Deadlock’s optics widened. 

An instant later, Ratchet found his hands pulled up above his head, his wrists clamped in Deadlock’s grip, and Deadlock looming over him, his optics blazing. 

“Open up, Autobot,” Deadlock hissed. 

Ratchet just lay there, uncomprehending. It was as though someone had flipped a switch in Deadlock’s head. The mech had transformed from sweet and snuggly Drift to angry and hostile Deadlock in an instant. 

Deadlock clamped one hand so tightly on Ratchet’s wrists that it hurt. He used his free hand to tap Ratchet’s valve panel. “I said, open up.” 

Ratchet obediently parted his thighs and opened his panel, displaying his valve to Deadlock. 

A moment later he wondered why he’d done it. Ordinarily he wouldn’t be inclined to listen to someone who couldn’t be bothered to ask nicely. Ordinarily he wouldn’t be inclined to frag such a person, either. There were worse things than sleeping alone. Pharma had taught him that. 

Was it because a part of him was afraid of Deadlock? 

Maybe he _should _be, but as he looked up and saw the dim lighting gleaming off Deadlock’s fangs, Ratchet felt more desire than fear, even if the kid had no manners. 

Perhaps he wanted to make this easy for Deadlock, who clearly still felt the need for aggressive Decepticon posturing, even in their own private hab. 

_Perhaps you’re just an old pervert_ . 

Ah, well. One last glory ride, right? Why not just lay back and enjoy? 

Deadlock’s free hand drifted to his spike panel, snapping it open. Ratchet craned his neck for a glimpse of Deadlock’s spike as it emerged. 

He didn’t have a chance to see anything before Deadlock lunged forward and jammed his spike into Ratchet’s valve. 

Ratchet grunted in discomfort, twisting his hips sideways to escape the uncomfortable pressure. 

Deadlock didn’t get it. He released Ratchet’s wrists, grabbed Ratchet’s hips with both hands, and thrust again. Harder this time, as if insufficient force was the problem. 

Ratchet felt Deadlock’s spike head inside, prying his valve open. It hurt, and his valve responded to the intrusion by clenching up tight. 

“Take it, Autobot.” Deadlock thrust again, getting nowhere, and snarled in wordless frustration. 

“Hey,” Ratchet said, before Deadlock started lashing out in earnest. “You can’t just do that.” 

Deadlock glared at Ratchet, his optics angry and challenging, but all Ratchet could remember was the past two weeks of teaching the kid to kiss. The first night, Deadlock had thought that a good kiss meant jamming his tongue down Ratchet’s throat at the earliest opportunity. The good news was that Deadlock had been teachable. 

And a quick learner. 

“Shut up,” Deadlock snapped. “I’ll suck you off later. You’ll get yours.” He dropped his gaze to Ratchet’s valve. 

Ratchet felt a hot tremor of rage: not at Drift, but at whoever had taught him that interface wasn’t fun for the receiving partner. 

“Drift. _Stop_.” 

To Deadlock’s credit, he did. He crouched over Ratchet, lip curled into a snarl, optics wide as though in shock. As though he were surprised that Ratchet didn’t just, as he’d said, _take it_. 

“A little foreplay is going to get you a long way, kid,” Ratchet said. “It’ll feel better for both of us if you help me get wet.” 

“You revved,” Deadlock said accusingly. “You want it.” 

Ratchet didn’t have time to dwell on how appalled he felt right now. “ _Arousal _isn’t the same as _wanting it_, which isn’t the same as _consenting to it_, and _none _of them mean I’m ready to _do _it without a little help.” 

Deadlock looked at him suspiciously, clearly not knowing how to ask for an explanation while kneeling over his partner’s bare valve. Ratchet also suspected the kid had no idea how foreplay worked. 

“You’re lucky I _do _want you to get me ready,” Ratchet continued. “There’s a few ways we can do that. Get my valve all wet and open.” 

“Okay,” Drift said warily. 

Thank Primus, the kid was willing to hear him out. 

“Deadlock,” Ratchet purred. “Touch me. Touch my node. Please?” 

Deadlock poked at it with a forefinger, as though it were an on/off switch. 

Ratchet sat up and caught Deadlock’s wrist in his. “Follow me,” he murmured in a low, sultry voice as he fit his hand over Deadlock’s. Deadlock caught on quick. He didn’t resist as Ratchet lowered their second and third fingers until the pads on Deadlock’s fingertips rested on Ratchet’s anterior node. Slowly, Ratchet moved their fingers in a gentle circling movement. 

Deadlock pressed down hard, drawing a grunt from Ratchet’s lips. Deadlock immediately retreated, realizing Ratchet’s fingers weren’t pressed down on top of his. They circled again, together, so lightly. 

“This is all?” Deadlock asked, confused. 

Pleasure bloomed in Ratchet’s systems. “If you start out hard, you don’t have anywhere to go. Start out light, it’s a tease. Makes me want more.” 

Deadlock nodded. That had to have made sense to him. 

“This gets you wet?” he asked. 

“It gets some mechs wet. Physiology varies…” He caught himself. Deadlock might not understand too much medical terminology. “It helps me relax and turns me on at the same time. But I usually need a little more help to get wet.” Ratchet felt pleasure ripple through his spinal strut and had to fight to stay focused. “Easiest way would be for you to lick your fingers a bit and slide them back to my valve.” 

“Easiest?” Deadlock didn’t miss a trick. “You mean there’s other ways?” 

“If I’d have known we were going to do this tonight, I’d have brought some lube home from the medbay.” 

Deadlock frowned. “I thought that was for when you didn’t like who you were with.” 

That comment almost killed Ratchet’s buzz right there. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much I like who I’m with. My frame’s old and doesn’t always cooperate.” 

_ Focus on yourself. Don’t think about Drift relying on lube to ease interface he didn’t want in the first place. _

Ratchet made himself keep talking. “But in order for me to go get it, you’d have to stop what you’re doing and I really don’t want you to do that.” 

Deadlock grinned, his dark thoughts forgotten. “Let me try this then.” 

He pulled his hand away. It was all Ratchet could do to let him free his hand from Ratchet’s grasp. He licked his fingers quickly and put them back on Ratchet’s anterior node. 

The soft, wet moisture felt heavenly. Ratchet moaned and let his engine rev loudly. 

“Oh, you like that,” Deadlock said, his voice soft, as though in awe. 

“Feels good when you do that.” Ratchet had to keep his head with Deadlock. Phrasing mattered. Deadlock needed to know that Ratchet wanted _him _and not just what he could do for him in the berth. 

Deadlock lifted his hand away again. Ratchet didn’t bother to hold back his whimper. 

Deadlock raised his hand to his mouth, extended his tongue, and made a show of licking the pads of his fingers. It was downright indecent. Ratchet revved his engine loudly and pumped his hips eagerly when Deadlock finally lowered his hand. 

Soft, decadent moisture spread over Ratchet’s slippery node. Drift circled once, twice, and then let his wet fingers glide back through Ratchet’s valve lips. 

“Hey,” Deadlock said. “If this feels so good, why don’t I just use my tongue?” 

Ratchet gasped. He bit his lip to keep himself from groaning in favour, but from the way Deadlock looked at him, he figured he was too late. 

“Is that a way?” Deadlock pressed. “One of those other ways you mentioned?” 

Words failed him. Ratchet nodded instead. 

Deadlock cast a speculative gaze over Ratchet’s valve. “Just like sucking spike?” Then Deadlock seemed to realize that he’d asked a question. “Yeah,” he added, pretending the question had been rhetorical, feigning that he knew exactly what he was doing and he was in complete control. 

Deadlock lowered his lips to Ratchet’s anterior node. Made a seal with his mouth. Sucked the whole node in between his teeth and tugged at it. 

Ratchet’s systems registered too much sensation all at once. “Whoa!” he exclaimed. 

Deadlock raised his head, crouching defensively between Ratchet’s splayed thighs. “Now what?” he growled. 

Ratchet was losing patience. He couldn’t keep the lecturing tone out of his voice. “Remember what I said about what happens when you start out hard?” 

“You don’t have anywhere to go,” Deadlock finished. Yes, he’d been listening. He pondered Ratchet’s node and a frown creased his forehead. Ratchet could practically hear the gears grinding as Deadlock tried to figure out how to suck a node gently and still maintain the suction. 

Ratchet sighed. “More licking, less sucking.” 

Deadlock brightened. Lowered his head eagerly. 

And started doing exactly what he’d been doing with his fingers, only with his tongue. 

Primus, but it felt wonderful. Ratchet let his knees sag apart. His whole body relaxed, spreading his thighs even wider, exposing even more of his valve to Deadlock’s tongue. 

Ratchet hadn’t done this in so long. He’d known he liked it, but it was though he’d forgotten just _how _good it felt…the _quality _ of it, the unique sensations that came only from the sweep of a soft tongue over an arousal-swollen node. Ratchet didn’t want to go this long without doing it again. 

He wondered if he should feel guilty about doing it with Deadlock. If he was taking advantage of the kid. 

The kid who’d tried to spike him with a low-growled _take it, Autobot._

Surely they cancelled each other out. Surely they weren’t both taking advantage of one another. 

Surely this could be all right. For them to share pleasure and enjoy it. 

“You doing okay, kid?” Ratchet rasped, his voice distorted with arousal. 

“Think I understand what you mean,” Deadlock replied, his words half-muffled between Ratchet’s leg. “Your valve blooms with every lick.” 

Ratchet moaned softly. 

“And you get wet just fine.” 

Ratchet felt something hard probing around the rim of his valve. Deadlock’s finger, he guessed. Deadlock wasn’t in the right position for it to be his spike. 

Ratchet bucked his hips anyway, chasing the sensation of something firm inside him. 

“This is _easy_,” Deadlock said with a smirk. 

Ratchet felt his building pleasure start to ebb. “Then why aren’t you _doing it_?” he groaned with frustration. 

“Want more?” Deadlock gave Ratchet’s anterior node a quick kiss. 

“Primus, yes.” 

“Gonna let me do you?” A lick, this time. 

“Yes.” 

“All night?” Three fast little licks. 

“Yes, damn it, Deadlock, _please!_” 

“Good.” Deadlock sounded smug as he settled down between Ratchet’s legs and resumed his ministrations. 

It wasn’t long before Ratchet was right back where he’d been before, and then higher as the kid kept licking him out, feasting on Ratchet’s valve like he hadn’t had a meal in weeks, sending Ratchet climbing higher and faster towards the pinnacle of ecstasy… 

“Hey, Ratchet.” 

Ratchet almost groaned out loud at yet another interruption. Another maddening tease. 

“Is it bad if you overload now?” Deadlock asked. 

“No, it’s not bad!” Ratchet felt ready to break. Ready to beg the kid any way he wanted to hear if only he’d give Ratchet what he needed. 

A question formed in Ratchet’s pleasure-fogged brain. _Why would he think it was bad?_

Deadlock lifted his head, and Ratchet _did _groan to see Deadlock’s moisture-soaked lips so far from Ratchet’s incredibly needy valve. 

“Really?” Deadlock asked skeptically. “You’re still gonna want my spike after you come?” 

Two weeks ago, Ratchet would have found Deadlock’s words to be inexcusably selfish. Even while he was eating out Ratchet, all Deadlock could think about was his own pleasure. This interpretation was in line with the cocky, arrogant image that Deadlock liked to project. 

But now Ratchet guessed differently. Deadlock…_Drift_…must know all about working hard to please others, only to have his own needs overlooked entirely. Part of him had to be bracing for Ratchet to con him into serving Ratchet’s pleasure, only to laugh in his face when he tried to get his own release. 

Ratchet teetered on the edge of overload. His own need made it hard for him to think clearly. 

It felt wrong to tell Deadlock to just spike him now. It wasn’t what Ratchet really wanted, and so it wouldn’t be honest for Ratchet to ask for it. He also didn’t want Deadlock thinking that pouting would get Ratchet to capitulate on demands in the future. 

“You’re going to have to trust me,” Ratchet said, his voice shaky. “Please. Help me overload and I’ll rock your world.” 


	2. Old Fantasy

Chapter 2: Old Fantasy 

Deadlock had not expected to find himself on his knees with his mouth between someone else’s legs during his trip aboard the _Lost Night_. 

For starters, he was third-in-command. That meant there were only two people aboard with the authority to demand such a thing from him. 

One of them was Thunderwing. Deadlock had been working and studying with Thunderwing for months, planning this quest to find the Knights of Cybertron. In that time, if Thunderwing had wanted this of him, he’d have made his move well before the _Lost Night _launched. Instead, in that time, Deadlock had learned that Thunderwing liked quiet and elegant, disciplined and highly-trained consorts. Deadlock was simply not his type. It gave Deadlock a feeling of deep relief. 

The other was Deathsaurus, an unrepentant deviant, and initially a cause for concern until Deadlock had learned more about the specific bent of Deathsaurus’s proclivities. According to his crew, Deathsaurus never initiated. Deadlock wasn’t sure if that was part of the kink or what, but regardless, it meant he had nothing to worry about from the Decepticon Army’s most infamous renegade so long as he never said, even in jest, that he wanted to fuck the beast. 

It was also possible that a mech with equal rank might make a pass at him, but, as third-in-command, the only other person with an equivalent rank to Deadlock was Chief Medical Officer Requiem. Requiem might have unnerving, disconcerting, and downright creepy mannerisms, but Deadlock had never known him to express them in a sexual manner. Deadlock remembered Ruckus’s imitation of Requiem: he’d drawn himself up, fixed his features in a perfectly neutral expression, and said dismissively, in a low, whispered monotone: “interface is for the _living_.” As far as Deadlock was concerned, Requiem could be as weird as he wanted so long as he wasn’t trying to kill anyone or get under Deadlock’s plating. 

That didn’t mean that Deadlock was entirely safe from mechanisms he outranked, and less so now than ever. Back on Cybertron, being known as one of Megatron’s favourites made other mechs keep their distance. But here on the _Lost Night_, with Megatron countless light-years away, that reputation was more of a liability than an asset. Deadlock made an appealing target both for those who wanted a piece of him for his own merits, and those who wanted to land a blow on Megatron. There were more than enough Decepticons who thought in the short-term, undeterred by the threat of future consequences. Deadlock should know. He was one of them. 

So Deadlock had cultivated another reputation, beyond just being the pretty speedster on Megatron’s arm, and he wore it like armour: he was bloodthirsty, savage, and _insane _in a fight. He was the kind of crazy who’d gleefully mangle himself if it meant he could take his opponent down with him; he’d rather get himself killed than give in. Anyone deciding to throw down with Deadlock had to be just as ready to die for what he wanted. Most people wanting a little fun weren’t willing to gamble their lives for it. 

But Deadlock couldn’t let his guard down. At the Wild Rumpus, he limited himself to one glass of engex before he switched to non-intoxicating beverages. Indulging in his only other drug of choice—a mild psychoactive—might have to wait until he had the opportunity to lock himself alone in his quarters for a full cycle. He couldn’t risk losing his edge in case he needed to fight. 

_ And if you want to be able to lock yourself into your quarters alone, why did you assign yourself a roommate? _

Truth be told, Deadlock didn’t know why he’d assigned Ratchet to be his roommate. 

_To get his attention, I guess_ . 

Deadlock supposed eating a mech out was one way to get his attention. Deadlock ran his tongue around Ratchet’s valve lips, leaving the medic gasping and pumping his hips. 

_What did you think would happen?_

Ratchet’s whimpers sharpened. Deadlock couldn’t bear them. He lapped at Ratchet’s anterior node and listened to his medic panting “yes…yes” in a breathless voice. 

_Not this._

Deadlock realized, with stunning clarity, that he’d never expected to actually end up interfacing with Ratchet. 

He’d acted impulsively when he’d put Ratchet in his stateroom. He was one of those mechanisms who lived for the moment. Good things came and went no matter what he did; if he didn’t move quickly, they went before he even got to taste them. So he’d used his authority to make Ratchet his roommate, just because he could, just to get near his medic, and when he’d come home and found Ratchet in their shared hab, he’d… 

Deadlock felt his faceplates heat. He hoped Ratchet didn’t notice, given the heat the medic’s frame was throwing off. 

Deadlock had started acting out one of his oldest fantasies. 

The scenario was one in which Ratchet had taken up Drift’s offer to repay him for saving his life after the overdose. In the original version, Ratchet had insisted on taking Drift to a fabulous hotel to do the repaying. Deadlock later realized that his idea of a _fabulous hotel _was middle of the road at best, but it was clean and warm and dry and had the softest berth he could imagine, and you could activate a comm and have the hotel staff bring fuel right to your room. To Drift, it _would_ have been fabulous. 

Drift had typically glossed over the interface part—all he needed to imagine was that it was painless and it made Ratchet feel happy and satisfied. Drift’s thoughts lingered on the soft berth, the feeling of a full fuel tank, and Ratchet laying beside him. His medic would be pleased by the interfacing. Ratchet would reward him, touching him affectionately, his every caress soothing and sweet, until Drift dimmed his optics and drifted off to recharge… 

In more recent years, Deadlock had made some edits to his favourite fantasy. Primary among them had been Ratchet on his knees in that soft berth, taking Deadlock’s spike and pleading for more. Once again, in a fantasy it was easy to gloss over details. All that mattered was that dream Ratchet loved it rough. It was make believe, and Deadlock could have everything he wanted: he could screw like a warlord and still earn Ratchet’s warm regard when the fragging was done. 

But real life was never as convenient as fantasy. In real life, Drift had never expected things to go this far. He’d played out the start of the fantasy from sheer curiosity, just to find out how far Ratchet would let him go. 

When Ratchet had opted to skip the interface and go right to the affectionate touches in the warmth of a shared berth, he’d left Deadlock utterly powerless to resist. Deadlock could do nothing but seize the best part of his fantasy with both hands and hold on tight, all the while fearing to believe it might be real. And Deadlock had enjoyed it for over two weeks. Until tonight, when Ratchet’s engine revved and Deadlock knew his leisure time was up. His medic’s patience had worn thin and he wanted to frag. 

But Deadlock was a Decepticon commander now. Ratchet knew that, and surely knew the consequences of a lower-ranking mech expressing interest for a superior officer. Ratchet had to have known that he wouldn’t get the same service he would have gotten from that addict in the gutter. 

Yet Ratchet hadn’t acted as a lower-ranking mech should. He _hadn’t _loved it rough, and he _didn’t _just lie there and take it like a good underling ought to. Deadlock’s fantasy went off-script and left Deadlock reacting instead of acting, and then Ratchet had taken control. 

Deadlock felt his fuel tank churn. Maybe it was his fault. He didn’t know what he was doing. If he had, perhaps he could’ve made the frag a little easier, and Ratchet would have played along. Maybe Deadlock would have gotten to find out if spiking someone felt as good as it did in his fantasies. If a valve was as nice, or nicer, than his own hand covered in lube. 

Instead… 

Deadlock obligingly tickled Ratchet’s anterior node with his tongue. 

_Instead I wind up serving someone else’s pleasure. Again._

Deadlock couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been taken advantage of as he licked his way around Ratchet’s valve again. It tasted different than a spike. Sweeter. It was easier to get a breath, too. He didn’t have to worry about choking on a spike in his throat. And he didn’t have to worry about Ratchet grabbing his head and holding it in position, making it hard to get a breath into his vents. Ratchet would have trouble getting a good grip from this angle. Plus, the sounds coming out of Ratchet’s mouth made it clear that the medic was really enjoying himself. _His Ratchet _ liked him, for his mouth at least. 

Really, this wasn’t so bad. Not becoming of a Decepticon warlord but…not so bad. 

“My node…please,” Ratchet rasped. 

Deadlock bit down his impatience and did as ordered. 

_ What’s your problem, anyway? You wanted to reward him. Fantasized about it for most of your life. Well, guess what? He’s letting you, and he’s enjoying it, too. _

Ratchet’s thighs trembled. His breath came in hot, fast bursts. His fans stuttered. His back arched and his frame shook, poised on the edge of overload. 

Deadlock gently stroked Ratchet’s inner thighs as he licked. Licked, and tasted, and watched as his medic climaxed under his touch. 

“Drift!” Ratchet shouted, and Deadlock forgave him for using that old name. _Drift _had just repaid a bill that was many millennia overdue. 

The part of him that was still Drift could take pride in the way Ratchet’s optics brightened when he came, glowing like two beacons cutting through fog and darkness. Deadlock could see their light reflecting off various surfaces, even with his mouth on Ratchet’s valve. Yes, he still knew how to please a mech. Even doing something he wasn’t that familiar with. 

_You’re just born shareware, aren’t you?_

A bolt of anger, or maybe hate, flashed through him. He made his tongue sharp, jabbing at Ratchet’s node. Ratchet seemed to like it, though, because his climax kept rolling through him, making his whole body spasm, tearing intimate and vulnerable cries from Ratchet’s lips. 

Deadlock licked and licked until Ratchet struggled to sit up, squirming beneath him, his anterior node engorged and probably sensitive. His valve lips were swollen, too, blooming of their own accord to display the secret entrance deep within. 

Ratchet had said that if Deadlock helped him get wet and ready, he’d let him spike him. Deadlock didn’t believe it. Ratchet had not been particularly compliant so far. 

Yet Deadlock couldn’t resist the temptation to go for it. There was Ratchet’s valve, right _there_ in front of him, a prize laid out for him, all ready for fragging…and Deadlock’s spike was still out from his last attempt to frag his medic, and achingly hard, after watching and feeling Ratchet come undone under his ministrations… 

_I’m a Decepticon officer, aren’t I?_

_ I deserve this._

Yet even as Deadlock pounced at Ratchet, he knew in his spark that he didn’t have the strength to demand his due. 

He didn’t want to see Ratchet hurting. 

_To be the cause of that hurt? No. Couldn’t bear it._

He was weak. A failure of a Decepticon. 

But no, he couldn’t hurt his medic. No matter how good it might feel. No matter how entitled he might be to his pleasure. 

_Not even if I don’t ever get to frag him. Or anyone._

_ I can’t do it._

Deadlock landed with his hands on either side of his medic’s shoulders, his frame covering Ratchet’s, his knees spreading to brace himself and forcing Ratchet’s thighs as wide as they could go. Deadlock felt something impossibly wet on his spike head… 

…_Ratchet’s valve_… 

…and wiggled around like an idiot, searching for the entrance. Moisture enfolded his valve, and yeah, it felt great, with Ratchet’s valve lips surrounding him, but where was _in_? 

And how long before Ratchet got around to stopping him? 

Deadlock groaned with desperation. He almost hated how good this felt, because if it was this nice to slide his spike over dripping valve lips, how good would it feel to go inside Ratchet’s valve? Would he get to find out before Ratchet put a halt to it? 

Ratchet’s optics, dim after the overload, lit up. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

_Ratchet liked what I did. I should be proud of myself._

“Hey,” Ratchet said. He lifted his arms, placing his hands on Deadlock’s shoulder blades. 

Deadlock keened, feeling his spike catch on something, not knowing which way to direct it in order to slide it into Ratchet’s delicious valve. 

“Gimme a kiss,” Ratchet said, his voice gravelly with desire. 

Deadlock realized, with a start, that he must look a sight. His cheeks were wet. His lips were soaked. His face was covered in Ratchet’s fluids. Automatically, he raised his arm and wiped at his lips. 

_Ratchet can see it and he still wants to kiss me._

“No?” Ratchet said. His expression was tender, not begging, not pleading, and Deadlock felt hurt that Ratchet didn’t want him enough to try to coerce him into giving him what he desired. 

Deadlock gave in without making Ratchet work for it. 

“Not no,” he said as he lowered his lips for a kiss. 

Ratchet didn’t hesitate. Deadlock was sure Ratchet had to taste his own valve on Deadlock’s lips, but he kissed him as slow and as reverently as ever, neither turning away from the mess nor indulging himself in some kind of kinky sampling of his own juices. 

Ratchet’s hands pulled Deadlock close. A hug. Ratchet was just so into hugging. It wasn’t so bad. Ratchet’s chest felt warm, supportive, safe. Deadlock’s spike sank into slick warmth. Ratchet wanted to cuddle, and Ratchet was going to get what he wanted. Deadlock gave up, went along with it. 

Because really. What had been the best part of his fantasies? Not imagining what spiking someone might be like. 

It was pretending that someone cared about him. 


	3. Emotional Whiplash

Chapter 3: Emotional Whiplash 

Yes, this was much better. Ratchet held Deadlock close and let his whole frame relax. His neural net glowed with the warmth of post-overload euphoria, and it probably wouldn’t be long before he climaxed again. But Ratchet was in no hurry. He had time to savour the moment. 

He really had to laugh. Who’d have thought he’d end up with a courtmate at this point in his life? Or spend his last big adventure making love? 

The kid really wasn’t what he’d expected. What he’d _feared _might be more accurate. Deadlock came on strong and aggressive, but he’d listened to Ratchet, stopped when asked, and respected Ratchet’s requests. He v _ery obligingly _improved on Ratchet’s requests. 

Dear Primus, but the things Deadlock could do with his tongue. 

Later, Ratchet would have to give some serious thought to Deadlock’s attitude, and why he’d felt the need to act like a bully in the berth. But Ratchet was satisfied that Deadlock—_Drift_—wasn’t an evil person at heart. And that he, Ratchet, wasn’t doing anything wrong by interfacing with him. 

Deadlock’s spike felt wonderful, rubbing against the rear of his anterior node, nuzzled in between his valve lips, shallowly penetrating his valve. Ratchet was looking forward to getting a bit more of that. There were some nodes deeper in his valve that were going to love the attention. 

Ratchet allowed himself to enjoy the anticipation. His hips conspired to press his body against Drift’s spike and try to sink it a little deeper. 

Deadlock, who’d also seemed content to enjoy this extremely close snuggle, suddenly drew back, out of Ratchet’s embrace. His blissful expression twisted into a sneer without warning. “I want to fuck you,” he snarled, as though taunting Ratchet to defy him. 

Ratchet was more than fine with the sentiment, but less impressed with the delivery. Before he could think better of it, he snarked, “What do you think you’re doing right now?” He clenched his valve around the head of Deadlock’s spike to underscore his point. 

Deadlock’s smirk collapsed when his jaw dropped open. His optics flared bright with shock, but his mouth softened into a gasp that Ratchet was pretty sure meant _awe_. 

_He didn’t know?_

Ratchet felt suddenly uneasy. “I’m gonna get emotional whiplash, kid,” Ratchet said with a sigh. 

Deadlock spluttered. “But…” He flinched—Ratchet could feel the movement reverberating in his spike—but he didn’t pull away. He looked at Ratchet with an expression of confusion and disbelief. 

Ratchet was willing to bet that Deadlock didn’t have all that much experience using his spike, despite his aggressive dirty talk. But he was no sweet innocent, either. Ratchet couldn’t delude himself—Deadlock could be very dangerous when he wanted to be. Right now, though, Ratchet didn’t feel threatened. He was pretty sure that Deadlock didn’t want to hurt him. He’d already had his chance and decided not to take it. 

So while Ratchet wouldn’t put up with Deadlock’s nonsense, he was also willing to dig up what little patience he possessed and make use of it. Part of Deadlock was still that leaker called Drift, and Ratchet was willing to bet that the bully act was a thin layer of paint over who knew what kind of welds and scars. The kid had always been knocked reeling by the simplest act of kindness. 

Ratchet reached up and stroked Deadlock’s cheek. “You want to make love to me, kid?” 

Deadlock nodded emphatically, as if he didn’t trust his voxcoder to speak clearly. 

“Can I touch you?” 

Another nod. Deadlock looked at Ratchet, and Ratchet could only guess what he saw reflected in those ruby optics: hope, curiosity, apprehension, excitement. 

Ratchet slid his hand over Drift’s shoulder, down his side, to the place where their frames were joined. He touched Drift’s hip, his abdomen, and finally, the root of his spike. 

Deadlock gasped. 

“Feel okay?” Ratchet asked. 

Enthusiastic nod. 

Ratchet chose his next words carefully. It wasn’t easy, given that Drift’s spike was a momentous distraction. Still, it wouldn’t do to sound like he was giving a medical lecture to his lover. 

“This interface is shallow right now. There’s a ring of tiny muscle hydraulics just inside. Your spike head is pushing up against that.” 

Drift moaned, but he seemed to be listening. 

“Do you want to come in deeper?” Ratchet swore he felt his valve get wetter just saying that out loud. 

Emphatic nod. 

Ratchet heard the rough edge in his voice when he asked, “Can I guide you?” 

Eager nod. 

Ratchet smiled. The kid really was sweet, underneath it all. 

Ratchet gently guided Deadlock’s spike into the right position. A thought flashed through his mind: rubbing Deadlock’s spike against his anterior node, spreading all that wetness around, using Deadlock’s spike like a sex toy. Exciting though the idea was, there was no way Deadlock would be ready for that. Ratchet shelved that idea for a later occasion and carefully nudged the tip of Deadlock’s spike against the very center of his valve opening. He moved his hips, feeling the tension promising to give way. 

“Here,” Ratchet murmured, and then he remembered how rough Deadlock’s initial attempt at penetration had been. “_Gently_.” His voice sounded sterner than he’d meant it to. 

Deadlock didn’t object. “Okay.” Obediently, he moved his hips in a careful thrusting motion as Ratchet moved his hand away. 

Ratchet moaned at the sensation of pressure. He wished his frame would just swallow Deadlock’s spike whole. He hoped Deadlock wouldn’t lose patience. “It’s like a door, kid. Just keep knocking until I open up and let you in.” 

Deadlock nodded agreeably and did exactly as he’d been requested. If anything, he was a little too gentle, but Ratchet could work with that. It was better than the alternative. Ratchet would just have to put a little extra effort into raising his hips to meet Deadlock’s thrusts. 

Primus, but the tension was doing strange things to him. Ratchet found himself panting as his libido passed beyond willing and well into eager. He wanted Deadlock inside him, right now! 

One thrust and Ratchet’s body almost—_almost_—let Deadlock’s spike past that ring of muscle. 

A second thrust and Ratchet felt his frame starting to give. 

A third thrust and Deadlock’s spike lodged in past the ring for just a moment… 

A fourth thrust. Ratchet actually felt Deadlock’s spike head skidding in as his valve’s resistance gave way. 

A fifth thrust and that ring of muscle neatly encircled Deadlock’s spike. 

Ratchet was certain that Deadlock would have liked to smirk triumphantly, but the goofy grin on his face was probably a more accurate reflection of his true feelings. Ratchet would need to let Deadlock know that his true feelings were going to get him a lot farther with Ratchet than his tough guy act ever could. 

Ratchet squeezed his valve around Deadlock’s spike, loving the sensation of having his courtmate inside him, filling him up and sending little zings throughout his hungry valve. He figured it was important to let Deadlock know that he was doing a good job. “Feels so good to have you inside me,” he sighed. 

Deadlock’s optics flashed surprise again. “You like it?” 

That innocent question turned all of Ratchet’s ugly suspicions into hideous certainties. 

It took every bit of Ratchet’s self-control not to react to a subject that had no place in an encounter between courtmates. Deadlock didn’t need Ratchet digging up the past. He needed to learn and understand what _making love _truly meant. 

“I like it _this _way,” Ratchet said, with just the slightest catch in his voice. He wondered if Deadlock would get the implication. That he _hadn’t _liked it when Deadlock had tried to take him so roughly and so coldly. 

Deadlock got the sappiest smile on his lips. Primus, but the kid could be sweet sometimes. 

“You like it?” Ratchet asked. He caressed Deadlock’s cheek. 

“Yeah,” Deadlock said, and his voice was hoarse. “You…feel wonderful…” 

“Want to press a little harder?” Ratchet asked. “Come in a little further?” 

Deadlock’s flashing optics and hungry grin was answer enough. Ratchet let his frame relax, feeling his valve pull Deadlock deeper. 

Not deep enough, though, for Ratchet’s taste. Ratchet debated saying anything. He suspected that giving Deadlock a direct order could insult his Decepticon pride. He’d balk, or worse, slip back into the demands-and-threats routine. 

But Ratchet had more than a little lust of his own, and his patience only went so far. Primus, but he wanted Deadlock hilted inside him. 

“Can I make a suggestion?” Ratchet asked, hearing the raw need in his own voice. 

Deadlock didn’t even think about it. He nodded consent right away. From the way his upper body trembled, it was clear how hard he was working to keep control of his frame. 

“Don’t be afraid to pull out a little farther before you thrust back in,” Ratchet murmured, stroking Deadlock’s shoulders. 

Deadlock’s brow furrowed in concern. Ratchet took a wild guess. 

“Worried you’ll slip out completely?” he asked. 

Deadlock nodded again, biting his lower lip with one long fang. 

Ratchet smiled. “Then I’ll just have to reach down and help you back in again,” he murmured. 

Deadlock dimmed his optics and moaned sweetly. 

“’Cause I want you in there,” Ratchet continued. “I want you in there _deep_.” 

Deadlock threw back his head, mouth moving as though he were whispering a silent prayer, and Ratchet reminded himself to cool it on the suggestive commentary. If this experience was as new for Deadlock as Ratchet suspected it might be, the speedster was probably focusing what little clarity of thought he had on not overloading too quickly. Ratchet didn’t need to fill his mind with erotic ideas and make that job even harder. 

What their bodies were doing was going to make that job plenty hard enough as it was. 

Because Deadlock took Ratchet’s advice, taking longer strokes, letting his spike pull halfway out of Ratchet’s valve before thrusting, instead of just trying to wiggle it in deeper. Every stroke of hard spike in slick, wet valve made Ratchet’s systems thrill. There was a little life in his old frame yet, and that life wanted to screw, to feel Deadlock’s frame surging against his, to feel the jack on Drift’s spike plug into the port in the top of Ratchet’s valve… 

Ratchet realized, belatedly, that he still had a guard on his port. No uploads and downloads for them tonight, then. That was all right. Ratchet wasn’t about to interrupt what was happening to try to remove the guard by himself. Besides, he had every reason to believe that Deadlock was going to come back for more. 

To encourage that outcome, Ratchet fluttered his valve invitingly and raised his knees to Deadlock’s hips. 

Deadlock let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a mewl. He leaned forward and started thrusting harder, faster. His whole frame trembled. He looked up at Ratchet with a pleading expression. Energon welled up where his fang pressed against his lip. 

Ratchet didn’t like to see his courtmate hurting. 

“It’s okay,” Ratchet said gently. “You can let go.” 

“But…” Deadlock whimpered. “You haven’t…” 

His words choked off, but Ratchet could guess what he was going to say. If Ratchet was really having a good time, he’d want to overload. Deadlock mustn’t come until Ratchet did. But Deadlock was having an increasingly difficult time staving off his own climax. 

Ratchet absolutely didn’t want Deadlock using that old trick of thinking of horrible things to counteract his rising pleasure. While he certainly wanted to overload, he didn’t need to. Mutual enjoyment was more important than just getting his. 

“Deadlock,” Ratchet said, a little more firmly. He locked optics with the kid. “_Come for me._” 

Deadlock’s optics widened. He gaped at Ratchet, as though he couldn’t believe that an Autobot had possessed the audacity to give him an order. 

Deadlock thrust once more, and once more was his undoing. He overloaded, optics shuttered, hips pumping wildly, and Ratchet…well, Ratchet knew about the other side of that trick, too. Like thinking about having a sexy speedster, a ranking Decepticon, labouring for Ratchet’s pleasure in the berth. And what his hungry little Decepticon might look like in a velvet collar. 

Between that incredibly erotic idea and Deadlock’s spike hitting one of his nodes _just so, _over and over in a series of increasingly wild thrusts, Ratchet found himself caught up in Drift’s climax and went over the edge right behind him. 


	4. What You Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your interest in my little AU! Enjoy :)
> 
> *

Chapter 4: What You Want 

Deadlock couldn’t help it. He shouldn’t have overloaded on command for Ratchet. Shouldn’t have let his Autobot think he could talk to a Decepticon officer like that. But with his spike hilted in Ratchet’s valve, and Ratchet’s valve being so delectably wet, and then Ratchet doing something… 

Deadlock didn’t know exactly what Ratchet had done, but he was well aware that it wasn’t something you could replicate with your own hand. All the while, part of his brain had been scrolling an alert: YOU’RE SPIKING, YOU’RE FUCKING RATCHET over and over again. The very notion made Deadlock want to pour himself into Ratchet’s waiting valve. 

He had to hold on. Had to frag his medic properly. Had to watch Ratchet overload first, so that Ratchet would know he was Deadlock’s fragtoy, and Deadlock would know Ratchet knew. Deadlock would also know that Ratchet wanted this. Wanted him. Ratchet wouldn’t be able to deny it after coming so wantonly underneath Deadlock. 

Deadlock didn’t think Ratchet would fake it. No, if Ratchet overloaded, Deadlock could trust that Ratchet genuinely enjoyed spreading his thighs to take Deadlock’s spike in his valve. 

To help himself last long enough to get that confirmation, Deadlock had bitten his lip until he could taste energon in his mouth. For a little while the pain had helped him keep his head. Stopped him from thinking about how close he was to overload. 

Then his medic had asked him for something, and in that moment, Deadlock would have given him anything. But all Ratchet had asked for was the one thing Deadlock wanted to do anyway. 

Deadlock spasmed, overloading so hard his vision danced with static. The whole while Ratchet’s hot, wet valve pulsed around his spike like it wanted to drink him dry. His back bowed and his whole frame trembled. He barely locked his arms in time to stop from collapsing onto Ratchet’s chest. 

By the time Deadlock got his breath, he noticed that Ratchet was convulsing beneath him, lifting his hips to meet Deadlock’s, trembling all over. 

So he _did _like it. Deadlock started thrusting again, even though he could feel his spike softening. He hoped that the friction would get him hard again, or that he could simply _force _his frame to keep going. His spike head felt bruised, but Deadlock didn’t care. It didn’t matter if it hurt as long as he did what he was supposed to. To prove to Ratchet who was in charge. 

_ Does it even matter? He probably already knows who’s the boss here. And that it’s not you. _

_ Loser._

Deadlock gave up and stopped trying to frag Ratchet’s valve any longer. Ratchet had grown still underneath him, so perhaps Ratchet’s overload had also finished. Drift could hope. 

Maybe this situation was still salvageable. 

He’d never get Ratchet to kneel for him properly, but if he played his cards right, perhaps tomorrow he could convince Ratchet not to hate him. Maybe even to let him do this again. 

Deadlock shoved away from Ratchet, climbing to his feet and moving quickly across the room. His spike felt chilled as it went from warmly snuggled inside the embrace of Ratchet’s valve to the cold air of the surrounding chamber. Deadlock tucked it back into its housing as he strode towards the door. 

“Deadlock.” 

Deadlock ignored Ratchet. He lifted his hand, reaching for the door controls. 

“_Drift_.” 

Reflexively, Deadlock looked back over his shoulder before he could think better of it. 

Ratchet had sat up in the berth. “If you want a courtmate and not just a frag buddy, you’ll get back here,” he said sternly. He patted the space beside him to indicate exactly where. For all his tone was strict, the gesture was inviting. 

Deadlock was halfway back to the berth before he realized what he was doing. At that point it was too late to debate the wisdom of letting his Autobot even make demands of him, let alone the consequences of caring about those demands, or worse, acquiescing to them. 

Realizing he’d made his choice, Deadlock sat down in the indicated spot and waited for Ratchet to drop whatever metaphorical axe he had in mind. 

Ratchet looked at Deadlock and sighed. “You mind explaining to me what was going through your head just now?” 

“You just got fucked,” Deadlock said, and this wasn’t the time to try to figure out how he felt about being the cause of that. Whether it was something to be proud of or something to feel guilty about. “Nothing worse than when the guy who just fucked you hangs around to gloat, right?” 

Primus, but it was embarrassing having to say those kinds of obvious things out loud. 

Ratchet just gawked at him, so Deadlock felt obligated to explain himself. “If it was me,” Deadlock continued, “I’d want him to get lost quick so I could, you know. Clean up, put some healing salve up my valve, run my diagnostics and self repair, get some fuel… Rest and recover, that kind of stuff.” 

Ratchet’s jaw dropped. Deadlock wondered what he’d said. He replayed the conversation in his mind, but couldn’t find anything strange about it beyond the embarrassing nature of it. 

“I thought it was nice to do for other people what I want them to do for me?” Deadlock guessed. 

Ratchet stared at him, and Deadlock stared back blankly. 

Finally, his medic said, “You didn’t hurt me. I don’t need my self repair function.” 

Which was no answer at all, and yet Deadlock felt something let go inside of him, a tightness he hadn’t known was there. 

Ratchet reached out and took Deadlock’s hand. Deadlock permitted it; by the time he even thought to object, by the time he realized Ratchet had no right to put hands on a ranking officer, they’d been touching too long for Deadlock to make a convincing objection. 

This was how it was going to be, then. Deadlock had spiked his medic and it had changed nothing. Ratchet was in charge here. Ratchet was going to do whatever he wanted to him and Deadlock was going to let him. 

Deadlock’s—Drift’s—old fantasy of being taken care of flickered hope inside his spark. Deadlock stomped it out. He was an abject failure of a Decepticon. He was going to deserve whatever Ratchet did to him. He probably deserved everything else that had happened to him in his life, too. 

Deadlock looked at Ratchet and wondered if it would hurt. He hoped it did. Deadlock could deal with physical pain a lot more easily than he could deal with whatever was going on inside his mind and his spark chamber right now. 

Ratchet stroked his cheek and said quietly, “You know it’s different when you like the mech you’re with?” 

Deadlock didn’t want to admit that for him it was more like wishing than like knowing. Or that he didn’t actually know, not for certain. It was possible Ratchet was trying to lull him into letting his guard down. Who knows what he’d do then? 

_Do you really believe that? Ratchet? Really?_

No, Deadlock didn’t really believe that Ratchet could get pleasure from hurting him. But the strength of his cravings scared him. He wanted his fantasy to come true as badly as he’d ever craved circuit boosters, and the loss of control was terrifying. 

Deadlock licked his lips, realizing he could still taste Ratchet’s valve. 

“Do you want to show me?” he asked, and though he phrased it like a challenge, he said it as gently as he could. 

“Yeah,” Ratchet said, brazenly folding his arm over Deadlock’s shoulders. “Yeah, I _do _want to show you.” 

“All right,” Deadlock said. He let his frame lean against Ratchet’s. Yes, he still remembered how to do this. He’d make his whole body go limp and numb. Maybe it would be like his fantasy. 

Deadlock chided himself. Maybe he should be prepared in case it wasn’t like his fantasy at all. 

“Your ideas weren’t all that off target,” Ratchet murmured in his audio. “Washing up together can be nice. Chatting can be nice, too. And drifting off to recharge in each other’s arms is great. I like to hear my partner’s engine purring next to me as I fall asleep. Feel the vibrations in my chassis and let him listen to mine.” 

That sounded entirely too easy. “Is that what you want?” Deadlock asked warily. 

_ After what I did to him, he still wants to be close to me? He still trusts me in the berth with him? _

A mean little part of Deadlock told him that he ought to make Ratchet sorry for trusting him. 

Deadlock let it chatter. He already knew he wouldn’t be acting on any of its suggestions. 

Ratchet shrugged. “I just want to be near you. How about you? Anything you ever thought you’d like to try?” 

The answer immediately leapt to Deadlock’s mind. To his horror, it leapt to his lips as well. “I want to refuel,” he blurted, before he could think twice. 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge, and Deadlock winced, because he’d given the wrong answer and Ratchet was going to laugh at him. _Make fun _of him. And Deadlock was going to have to teach him a lesson, to put him in his place, and the thought of it made Deadlock feel sick. Yet if he _didn’t _enforce his position, what would happen when Ratchet crossed someone like Bludgeon or Thunderwing? Could he hope to be so lucky as to convince Ratchet to mind his manners in front of other Decepticons, without having to hurt him? Would Deadlock’s words really be enough? Megatron had always said that words were easily forgotten, scars less so. 

Deadlock realized, belatedly, that Ratchet hadn’t said anything. Even his skeptical raised optic ridge had relaxed into an expression of curiosity moreso than mockery. “You want me to warm something up, kid?” Ratchet asked, his voice low and husky in a way that set Drift’s hands trembling. 

“Th-there’s fuel under the bed,” Deadlock stammered. He felt as though all his warrior’s grace had deserted him, leaving him stumbling and awkward in front of Ratchet. 

Ratchet leaned down and pulled a crate half-out from under the berth. He stuck his hand into the box and fished around until he got hold of something. Deadlock thought he saw Ratchet start to rise, grunt, and lean back down again, as though he had trouble getting a grip on the objects in the box. In the end, though, Ratchet managed to get a hold on a packet of fuel. Rising back to a sitting position, Ratchet folded his arm and glanced at the packet in his hand. 

“Ugh. This one’s medical grade.” 

Deadlock lashed out, almost caught himself in time. He’d intended to seize Ratchet’s wrist and hold his hand in place. He managed not to clamp down, but he didn’t catch himself in time to avoid his hand brushing against Ratchet’s wrist. 

Ratchet stilled anyway. “You want this?” 

Deadlock tried to think through the revelation that Ratchet had responded to a soft touch. That pain hadn’t been required. 

Megatron had taught Deadlock to ignore soft touches. To only respect those individuals capable of _demanding _his notice. 

But Ratchet had always commanded Deadlock’s attention, and Deadlock wasn’t sure if that was in spite of his gentle hand, or because of it. 

“Here you go, then.” Ratchet carefully opened the packet by punching a straw into it. 

Deadlock didn’t wait for Ratchet to hand it to him. He lunged for the straw, even though reaching it meant leaning right across Ratchet’s lap. Rather than accepting the drink, Deadlock folded his arms and settled himself against Ratchet’s legs, his head resting on Ratchet’s far thigh. 

Ratchet repositioned the packet so Deadlock could drink from it comfortably. 

Deadlock sucked hard on the straw, feeling the thick, rich medical grade fuel filling his mouth. Everyone else said the stuff was rich and cloying, but Deadlock loved it. Always had. It satisfied him like nothing else. 

He dimmed his optics and settled into Ratchet’s lap. 

Any moment now, Ratchet would complain about the invasion of his personal space and shove him out. But Deadlock was a master of living for the moment. In _this _point and time, he was cozied up in Ratchet’s lap, warm and clean and safe and in the process of filling his tanks with sweet, delicious fuel… 

Deadlock dimmed his optics and conjured up that mid-level hotel room, that soft touch on his flank. 

A gentle hand tenderly traced the curve of Deadlock’s hip. 

Deadlock lit a single optic and looked up in surprise. 

Ratchet looked down at him with a warm glow in his optics. “Feel good, kid?” 

Deadlock thought about denying it. 

He nodded instead. 

Deadlock didn’t know how long this was going to last, but for a little while—for _this moment_—his fantasy had come true. 


	5. A Taste of Fantasy

Chapter 5: A Taste of Fantasy 

Ratchet despaired of what to do. 

Not that the present moment was unpleasant. A lapful of Deadlock, his engine purring contentedly, his lips wrapped around the straw in a packet of medical grade fuel. One of Ratchet’s hands held the packet steady. The other traced Deadlock’s hip in a gentle rhythm. 

It was actually rather sweet. 

What concerned Ratchet was what would happen when Deadlock—a notoriously brutal Decepticon—realized how open and vulnerable he’d been. That had to be the reason for Deadlock’s aggressive bully act. Deadlock would certainly regret his emotional honesty. A Con wouldn’t want anyone to know how soft he was. Ratchet wondered what Deadlock would think he needed to do in order to keep Ratchet’s mouth shut. And what he could do to let Deadlock know that wasn’t necessary. 

Deadlock exhaled slowly. All the tension bled out of his frame until he sagged against Ratchet, his body entirely limp. A moan escaped his lips, and, given that he was still drinking from the straw, he choked on it. 

Deadlock sat up suddenly, optics bright, coughing. Ratchet stilled his hand, ready to assist if need be, but Deadlock gulped down the fuel, swallowed once more, and relaxed. 

Ratchet waited. 

Deadlock caught the straw in his lips and resumed drinking. 

“Take it easy,” Ratchet murmured. “There’s no rush.” 

“Mmm.” Deadlock made a noise as though he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t talk and eat at the same time. Fuel won. Deadlock drank until a spluttering sound indicated that he’d drank the packet dry. He kept on slurping anyway, as though trying to draw every last molecule into his mouth. 

“Hey, don’t swallow air,” Ratchet said, pulling the packet away. “You’ll get air bubbles in your tanks.” 

Deadlock resisted, raising his hands to grab for the packet. 

“Kid, there’s more where that came from.” Ratchet knew it wasn’t the time to get into Deadlock’s obvious fuel insecurity. “You still hungry, or can we talk a bit before I feed you the next one?” 

“You’ll feed me the next one?” Deadlock looked up at Ratchet with a big stupid grin on his lips. He let Ratchet set the empty packet aside. 

Ratchet sighed. “You know, you could’ve just asked me to do this.” 

“No way.” Deadlock dimmed his optics. “When you ask, people can say no.” 

Ratchet scowled. “You don’t think I would say no if I didn’t want to do something?” 

Deadlock’s previously relaxed expression contorted into a challenging sneer as he lit his optics and glared at Ratchet. “You think I’d care what you said?” 

Ratchet couldn’t help a frisson of fear from chilling his fuel tank, but he couldn’t back down now. Otherwise he’d have to put up with this kind of treatment from Deadlock for the rest of the trip. 

“I think Deathsaurus might care if you sliced up one of his medical officers.” 

Deadlock jerked himself up into a sitting position. “You’d go tattling to Deathsaurus?”

“If I had to,” Ratchet retorted. He matched Deadlock’s glare, leaning forward until their noses almost touched. “But do you think I will? Because you’ve been listening to me. You _obviously _care about what I said. What I _feel_. You _could have _hurt me to get what you wanted and you didn’t.” 

Deadlock’s defiance crumpled. Ratchet should have felt relieved, but he felt sickened instead. Deadlock didn’t look apologetic. He looked _beaten_. He looked as though Ratchet had physically kicked the legs out from under him, then kicked him in the chin for good measure. “Please don’t tell anyone.” Deadlock’s optics gleamed as he wrung his hands. “I’ll let you do whatever you like to me in here, just _please _act scared of me outside this hab.” 

Ratchet wasn’t inclined to lie about their relationship, or to put on an act in public. His immediate response was irritation that Deadlock was so ashamed of courting him. Why was he embarrassing? Was it his Autobot badge? His job: a healer in a culture that venerated warriors? Or was it that he was an old, worn-out, blocky box on wheels and a beautiful mech like Deadlock didn’t want to admit courting someone so unattractive? 

But Ratchet held his tongue. He remembered how he’d misunderstood Deadlock’s actions after they’d made love. When Deadlock had bolted for the door, Ratchet had snapped at him, thinking him selfish for taking pleasure and then abandoning Ratchet to go on about his business as if nothing had happened. Ratchet had been horrified to discover that Deadlock’s quick exit had been an attempt to be considerate. How had Deadlock put it? 

_ Nobody wants to get fucked and then have the guy who did it hang around gloating about it. _

It would be better to get Deadlock talking until he explained his reasoning, rather than jumping to the obvious conclusion. Ratchet was beginning to suspect that the obvious conclusion might only be obvious to an Autobot. 

“Kid,” Ratchet started, running a gentle hand over Deadlock’s back, “I’m gonna need you to pretend I’m a freshly onlined MTO and I don’t understand anything about how society works, or anything about interfacing. Can you teach me what I need to know?” 

“Scrap me, as if you don’t know anything about interfacing.” Deadlock’s optic lit with a mischevious glow. He was smiling. 

He was teasing. 

“Because where I’m from,” Ratchet continued, “not telling anyone about a relationship means you’re ashamed of it. Either that, or you’ve got another lover and you don’t want them to know.” Ratchet remembered the rumours he’d heard about Deadlock and Megatron and suddenly felt sick. 

Deadlock sat up abruptly, staring at Ratchet. “What? _No_. I don’t want anyone to know about what we just did because it’d be _dangerous. _For _you _even more so than me.” Deadlock regarded Ratchet with absolute horror. “The _last _thing I want is Thunderwing or one of his goons deciding that you’re getting uppity and you need to be put in your place.” 

“It’s not about your rank?” 

“Well, _yeah, _but I’m used to fighting for my rank. I can take a piece out of anyone who thinks I’ve gone soft. It’s _you _I’m worried about. I can’t always be around to protect you and Thunderwing has more traditional ideas about social standing than Deathsaurus does.” 

Ratchet drew a deep breath. “Tell me what that means. Traditional ideas.” 

“You know.” Deadlock squirmed. “That using your spike is the privilege of rank.” 

Ratchet felt aghast. He’d been suspecting this was the case, but hearing Deadlock state it so bluntly hammered home the horror all over again. “And that’s normal for Decepticons.” 

Deadlock peered at Ratchet curiously. “That’s normal for everyone, isn’t it? It sure was normal in the gutters before the war. You wanted to use your spike, you either find someone weaker than you, or you find someone willing to trade. Someone who’ll stoop for you in exchange for whatever you’ve got.” 

Ratchet rubbed his forehead. “Is _that _why you kept trying to “repay” me back in Rodion?” 

Did Deadlock even like him at all, or did he just feel he had a bill outstanding? 

Deadlock peered at him. “On the streets we take what we can get,” he said quietly. “I don’t have that kind of honour. Just because someone’s dumb enough to cut me a break doesn’t mean I owe him anything.” 

“So when you made that offer to me…” 

Deadlock crossed his arms. “I like when you touch me,” he said, as though he were confessing to some horrible crime—a crime for which he was unrepentant. “I like _you_.” 

But that was the whole problem with their so-called relationship, wasn’t it? “Kid, you don’t even _know _me.” 

“I know everything I need to.” Deadlock’s arms loosened, but his hands balled into fists. “I know I hate being touched by anyone except you. I know I feel safe in this hab with you. I know being near you makes me…” Deadlock’s voice trailed off as he searched for words he couldn’t find. “I want you here and I want you _happy_,” he hastened to add. “That’s why I’ll do what it takes to make you like it here. I just….just want you to stay safe.” 

“Like that graffiti on my clinic back in Rodion.” 

Deadlock actually flushed. “You could read it?”  
“I had a nurse who could translate it.” 

“Yeah.” Deadlock’s nerve seemed to have returned. “You’ll have fun here with me. Like I said, I’ll make you happy. Keep quiet outside the hab, and you can do whatever you want to me.” 

Ratchet had no idea how to raise his concerns about the bleak transaction that Drift was offering him. “What if I want to get to know you?” 

“Don’t. I’m a rotten person. But I’m a great little lay.” Deadlock licked his lips. “You’ll have a good time…” 

Ratchet took Deadlock’s hand. “And what about you?” 

“You said it was different when you like the mech you’re with,” Deadlock said, almost belligerently, but he gripped Ratchet’s hand tightly. 

“I hope that’s true, but Drift, I’m not going to do anything until you make me a promise.” Ratchet slid his free hand under Deadlock’s chin. “I want you to promise me you’ll _tell _me if you don’t like something. Because if you don’t like it, I don’t want to do it.” 

Deadlock glanced sideways. 

“I mean it. And no putting up with discomfort to try to please me, either. I need to know or else I’m moving to the other berth.” 

“Your berth is covered in medical junk,” Deadlock sneered. 

“I need to know or I’m recharging on the floor,” Ratchet retorted. 

Deadlock blinked. “You’re serious. Not messing with me?” 

“If you want a relationship,” Ratchet said, gently stroking Deadlock’s cheeks, “then those are the terms. Those, and the inverse. I say I don’t like it, you stop.” 

“That’s weird.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“You sound like Deathsaurus.” 

“Good for him.” 

“Whole ship of perverts,” Deadlock muttered. It wasn’t a convincing insult when he leaned into Ratchet’s touch. “Okay. I concede.” 

“And I’ll pretend I’m scared of you outside this hab.” 

“Maybe not in front of Deathsaurus.” 

“He’d object?” 

“He’s a raging deviant.” 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “Let’s pretend I don’t know what that means.” 

Deadlock rolled his optics. “Put it this way. Thunderwing’s troops have been, alternatively, congratulating me for snagging myself a berthwarmer, scolding me for fragging an Autobot, or asking me a whole bunch of really personal questions, all of which I answer “that’s for me to know and you to find out.” Deathsaurus, on the other hand, has hauled me into his office not once but three separate times to caution me about respecting personal autonomy and remind me that he doesn’t give a scrap about what the rest of the Decepticon Army considers normal.” 

“Deathsaurus has also asked me if I enjoy living here with you.” 

Deadlock sat up. “What did you tell him?” He was aiming for a snarl, but he missed. His optics betrayed his worry. 

“I told him you’d been a gentlemech.” 

Deadlock cringed. “Until tonight.” 


	6. Cracks in the Armour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning on this one for discussions of demisexuality, different cultural notions of sexual behaviour, and consent issues.

Chapter 6: Cracks in the Armour 

Deadlock hated himself for betraying Ratchet’s faith in him. He didn’t know why. He was the alpha Decepticon in this hab suite, and everything he knew about getting along with others told him that the mech with power took his share and the mech without took what was left over, or what his superior might see fit to gift to him. 

How had he ended up like this?

It had been just over two weeks since the _Lost Night _launched. Just over two weeks since Deadlock had assigned Ratchet to share a hab with him. Deadlock had indulged himself in a little fun, teasing the doctor. He’d expected Ratchet to run at the earliest opportunity. Instead, they’d settled down into this…this _relationship_. __

Deadlock hadn’t wanted to ruin it by pressing for his due. 

Even tonight, when Deadlock had come off shift, he’d opened the door of the hab to find Ratchet sitting up in the berth reading a datapad, his back supported by a heap of pillows. Ratchet had looked up and smiled to see Deadlock coming home. 

Smiled. 

Ratchet had touched the berth next to him in clear invitation. It had taken all of Deadlock’s self-control to stroll casually to Ratchet’s side while Ratchet set his datapad down. He’d wanted to run. To nuzzle up to his medic as quickly as he could for fear something would happen to call him away or to change Ratchet’s mind. 

Deadlock had not been able to keep his hands from trembling as he peeled back the tarps and got in the berth next to Ratchet. He could feel the warmth emanating from the medic’s form as he settled in. 

It was good to be with Ratchet. Deadlock never ceased to marvel how Ratchet’s touch felt so different than anyone else’s. Physical contact always made Deadlock’s hide crawl, unless it was Ratchet. Then he just couldn’t get enough. 

He’d ended up with his whole body pressed to Ratchet, as he always did these days. Ratchet stroked his back so gently, and Deadlock knew that sooner or later they’d wind up kissing. Afterwards, when Deadlock was satiated, they often talked. Deadlock was never really satisfied, but he’d reach a point where he’d let Ratchet speak without kissing him back into silence. 

Tonight, midway through the kissing part, Deadlock had become acutely aware of his valve panel pressed against Ratchet’s panels. It felt warm, hot almost, and Deadlock couldn’t tell if the heat was coming from inside his body or from Ratchet’s frame. Either one had disturbing implications. 

But Ratchet had never pressed him for interface, not tonight, not at any time during the voyage. It was never even spoken of as a possibility. Deadlock knew there was nothing to be afraid of. He simply shifted his body until the pressure was off his valve panel. 

A few moments later, he realized he was now rubbing his spike panel against Ratchet’s pelvis. The heat and pressure against his sheathed spike felt… _interesting._

Deadlock, unwilling to scare off his medic—his medic that he _liked _sharing a hab with—never asked for his due in the berth. No, he couldn’t actually _frag Ratchet_. He wouldn’t do that to the mech who’d saved his life. But he could think about it, and he often did, usually when alone, usually with his hand around his spike, but this was good too…rubbing against Ratchet, kissing Ratchet, smelling and tasting Ratchet and imaging what it would be like to… 

Then Ratchet’s engine had made that familiar ominous revving sound and Deadlock knew his fun was over. 

Ratchet wanted interface, and he was going to frag Deadlock, unless Deadlock acted his rank and fragged Ratchet first. Deadlock shouldn’t worry. Ratchet had asked for it. At least he’d get to find out whether his fantasies had come anywhere close to the real thing. 

Now, though—now that Deadlock knew his fantasies were nowhere near as good as the real thing—now Deadlock found his spark divided in two, and the halves were threatening civil war with one another. 

Part of him regretted his aggressive actions. He’d done things he should have known Ratchet wouldn’t like. This part told him he should roll over and open his legs for Ratchet and let Ratchet take an apology out of him. 

The other part told him that _no _amount of guilt would change the way the _other _Decepticons acted towards Ratchet. If Deadlock wanted to keep his medic safe, he had to keep Ratchet in line, and that meant he would have to be as cruel as he needed to be to make Ratchet act appropriately. To the Pit with his own feelings. Deadlock’s silly emotions were nothing next to the importance of protecting Ratchet. 

But Ratchet wasn’t making it easy for Drift to keep his emotions under control. 

“You want to talk about that?” Ratchet asked gently. “You want to talk about what happened tonight?” 

No, Deadlock didn’t want to do that at all, and Ratchet’s kind tone made the situation worse. It would be easy to just be ordered to talk about it, or threatened with consequences if he didn’t talk about it, but instead Ratchet foisted upon him this…this illusion of having a choice. 

“You revved,” Deadlock said accusingly. 

Somehow it didn’t seem like the exoneration he’d intended it to be. 

Ratchet sighed. “Remember what I said about arousal, wanting, and consenting all being different things?” 

“I thought you were supposed to be the one pretending not to know about interface.” 

“Yeah, right now I don’t think anyone’s pretending.” 

Deadlock cringed again. “If you didn’t want to, why…” 

But Ratchet gave ground. “I’m sorry. You’re right—it’s time for me to listen to you.” He squeezed Deadlock’s hands gently. “Tell me what you thought when you heard my engine rev.” 

“That it was fragging time. That…” Deadlock licked his lips. “That it was time for me to do my job as ranking Decepticon.” 

“Because using your spike is the privilege of rank.” Ratchet’s lips turned down, as though he didn’t approve of this statement. But approval or not, it was fact. The truth didn’t care what people thought about it. 

It occurred to Deadlock that maybe Ratchet didn’t understand the danger in flaunting Decepticon social norms. “And _not _using my spike means I roll over and let you have your way with me, and when you get used to breaking rank with me, maybe you try it on someone else…” Deadlock sped up his words when he saw Ratchet’s frown deepen. “I don’t necessarily mean fragging them, but maybe you don’t move fast enough when Thunderwing orders you to do something, maybe you talk back to Spinister in the medbay, _whatever_, and suddenly _they’re _the ones putting you in your place, and they’re not as nice as I am where you’re concerned, and it’s all my fault because if I’d done my job properly and taught you to keep your place, they’d have never had to do that to you.” 

Ratchet looked downright horrified. “Deadlock…_Drift_…you are _not _responsible for what other people do.” 

“If you’re mine then I _am _responsible for looking after you. Part of which includes teaching you how to behave and making sure you know and keep your place.” 

Ratchet didn’t look willing to accept this statement. “If anything, I should be Requiem’s,” he muttered. “He’s my supervisor at work, right?” 

Deadlock’s optics narrowed. “Has he tried anything on you? Or let any of the other medics try?” 

“You think Glit would try anything on me?” 

Glit was a strange one. Deadlock had always had contempt for the mech who was, in his mind, the ultimate omega. Yet Glit had nerve enough to defy Megatron’s orders again and again, repairing Autobots as well as Decepticons. And Glit had saved enough Decepticons to have a silent army of supporters, a network willing to help and protect him when his unbending pacifism angered his superiors. Glit was much like Deathsaurus that way. But Deadlock couldn’t imagine Glit trying to take advantage of Ratchet. 

“No. But I don’t know that Spinister mech. Is he keeping his hands to himself?” 

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Spinister is fine. Glit is fine. Requiem and his people are…” 

“The restless undead.” 

Ratchet rolled his optics back the other way. “_Unusual _but fine.” 

“They’re Cryptkeepers, Ratch, I…” Deadlock caught himself. This wasn’t the time or place to get in a fight with Ratchet, who had already made his position on ghosts, zombies, and Cryptkeepers abundantly clear. They’d had plenty of opportunity to discuss the subject while locked in the hab hiding from the “unknown threat” that Ratchet had insisted on calling an unknown threat, even though everyone else had been content to call it a sparkeater. “I want you to be careful around them.” 

“Requiem, Mortua, and Despoiler are excellent medics and, with the occasional exception of Despoiler, professional to a fault.” He looked at Deadlock curiously. “But you’re saying that if Requiem _wasn’t _as reserved and professional as he is…he could ask me to frag and I’d be expected to say yes?” 

Deadlock wrung his hands. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. I mean, _technically_ yes, but there’s a whole bunch of other social factors at play.” 

Ratchet looked honestly befuddled. “Like?” 

“Well, since the whole ship knows you’re mine, anyone trying to frag you isn’t just trying to frag _you_, they’re also trying to insult _me_. The good news is that even if, say, Requiem wanted a piece of you, he’d think twice about whether he wanted me coming after him once I found out. The bad news is that anyone who wants to get to me, knows they can do it by targeting you. Especially if they think there’s more at stake than just my pride. That’s why the rumour is that you’re my fragtoy, not that we’re courting or anything.” 

“Wait. You _encouraged _that rumour?” 

“I started it.” 

“Unbelievable.” Ratchet shook his head. Deadlock wasn’t sure if Ratchet was disappointed or impressed. Or if it was possible to be both at once. 

Deadlock hurried to the next part of his explanation. “Another factor is that it’s generally considered distasteful to press your attentions on someone who obviously isn’t welcoming them. It’s a sign of weakness. Wanting a frag is one thing, wanting it with one specific person so badly that you continue to pester them despite their resistance illustrates a problem with _you_. It means you’re obsessing over a subordinate and, in doing so, giving them power over you. Not to mention what happens when everyone else finds that crack in your armour. The gracious thing to do is to just pick someone else. Most ranking mechs have no shortages of subordinates who are willing to frag.” 

“Yeah, I noticed Decepticons aren’t much for monogamy.” 

“It’s because we model ourselves after Megatron. And really, it makes sense. Leaders usually have multiple followers, all of them wanting some attention.” 

“Megatron gets around, so you all want to do it too.” 

“It’s not like that. It’s…” Deadlock looked for words. “It’s supposed to be comforting. A reinforcement of your social role. If you’re a good follower, your leader can reward you in the berth. If you’re average, then you serve a purpose—your leader’s pleasure—and nothing more. If you’re a troublemaker, you can be punished.” 

Ratchet scowled. “Interface shouldn’t be a punishment.” 

“Punishments can be incentive,” Deadlock argued. “If you don’t like your position, you have motivation to change it. If you do, you can accept and embrace it. Or you can slack off and drop rank, if you’re heartset on being a skiv, but I found myself a lot less content to freeload off the universe when the Decepticons gave me a _reason to try_.” 

“What say we drop the politics and focus on the _supposed to be comforting_ part,” Ratchet said. “Because unless I read you wrong, you’ve _never _found interface to be comforting.” 

Deadlock cringed, feeling the jaws of a trap closing around him. There was no way out but to say the one thing he didn’t want to say. 

“That’s me though,” Deadlock admitted. “I’m broken.” 


	7. What Greater Love

Chapter 7: What Greater Love 

Ratchet decided that he was not impressed by Decepticon views on sexuality. 

First and foremost, he rejected the idea that dominant mechs used their spikes, and submissive mechs used their valves. As far as Ratchet was concerned, what kind of interface a mech liked shouldn’t have anything to do with rank or power dynamics. Ratchet was tempted to say that the Decepticons modelled themselves after Megatron a little too closely. 

But Deadlock had already learned these kinds of intimate dynamics in the gutters of Rodion. There was a school of thought here which predated Megatron. It was, to Ratchet’s mind, a savage way of thinking, and it had enabled cruelties long before the dawn of the war. 

The Decepticons saw an unfair world and, instead of trying to make it better—instead of working to balance out those inequalities—they decided to use that world’s rules against it to make sure they came out on top. Really, when it came right down to it, the Autobots were the true revolutionaries. The Decepticons simply embraced the harshest aspects of life as inevitabilities, claiming they made them strong, while the Autobots worked towards their vision of the future in the hopes that someday nobody would _need _that kind of strength. 

It was difficult for Ratchet to see Deadlock arguing that it was right and good for leaders to frag their subordinates when Ratchet knew damned well how much Deadlock hated the attention his good looks got him. 

But when Deadlock admitted that he was _broken_, Ratchet finally began to understand. 

“Broken,” Ratchet repeated softly. “I don’t think so.” 

Deadlock glared at him suspiciously. “A lot of mechs are happy with this system. Not just the ranking officers. A lot of mechs on this ship like to go to their squad leader, or their mentor, or even a strong and steady friend, and enjoy a nice comforting frag after battle.” 

“But you aren’t one of them.” 

“I’m Megatron’s,” Deadlock said quickly. “They wouldn’t dare touch me.” 

Ratchet had not been aware of that. The news felt like a punch in the gut. “W…what does that mean for our courtship?” 

“Nothing.” Deadlock looked at Ratchet strangely. “You’re mine, I’m his, so…” 

That statement hurt. Ratchet didn’t know why it hurt. He hadn’t been thinking of becoming conjunx endura with Deadlock…had he? He’d known all along that their relationship was just a shipboard romance. By the Pit, the only reason he’d called what they had together a courting relationship was because Deadlock seemed to need the stability as much as Ratchet needed to know that Deadlock would continue to treat him with a certain amount of baseline decency. 

But when Ratchet thought about Deadlock leaving their shared berth to go lie with Megatron, he felt ill. It was a sickness no medicine of his could cure. 

Ratchet’s response had to be visible on his face, because Deadlock leaned closer, arched an optic ridge, and then said, with false lightness, “What, did you want me to be your conjunx?” 

Ratchet said nothing. He was silenced by the terrible revelation that, yes, a part of him did want that, very much. 

“Is someone bothering you? Is that why?” 

Ratchet could only shake his head no. 

Deadlock dropped the mockery. His voice was a low tone of concern when he spoke again. “Hey, that really is a thing Autobots do? Court someone as a precursor to the conjunx ritus?” 

“As opposed to what?” Ratchet tried and failed to keep the hurt out of his voice. “How do Decepticons choose their conjunx? Bash them over the head with a club and haul them back to their berth—or their commander’s berth?” 

“Most Decepticons don’t want a conjunx. Not that it’s forbidden. It’s just seen as a little odd. To publically announce that kind of favouritism…that kind of vulnerability…” Deadlock shivered. 

Ratchet folded his arms across his chest. He knew it made him look standoffish and he didn’t care. He needed whatever scant warmth his arms could provide in a room—in a world—that suddenly felt very, very cold. 

Deadlock noticed. “You had that kind of relationship,” he guessed. “You said you were divorced.” 

Ratchet nodded. 

“If you want that again…” 

Stupid hope bloomed in Ratchet’s spark. 

“I won’t stop you.” 

The hope vanished, like a flame blown out by a strong gust of wind. 

“Not you,” Ratchet said bitterly. “You’re absolutely fine if I go find myself another lover to conjunx with, but it can’t be you.” 

“No, I’m _not _fine,” Deadlock retorted, “but just because I _could _stop you doesn’t mean I _would_. If that’s what you need, I’ll deal with it before I see you hurting.” 

“But you’re not an option. Because Megatron.” 

“Pfft, you think Megatron would care?” 

“Megatron would let us become conjunxed, but he’d still expect to frag you whenever he wanted?” 

“No.” Drift looked uncomfortable. “Probably not.” 

“_Probably_.” Ratchet didn’t sound impressed. 

“Most of the time it isn’t like that.” 

“Like what?” Ratchet dreaded to hear the answer. 

“These days I’m the guy Megatron calls when he wants to get some work done. Or just have some peace and quiet. I get a good recharge in his nice berth, and everyone else thinks we’re up to a lot more than we really are.” 

Ratchet had not expected that answer. “What?” 

“Megatron’s smart. Smart enough to see through my acting job, which is pretty good if you’re someone who’s mostly interested in seeing what he wants to see, but maybe isn’t so good if you’re looking for the lie. You are being deceived, and all that.” Deadlock glanced away. “Megatron knows I don’t like it. It’s not often that he asks me.” 

“Not often.” Which was still too often where Ratchet was concerned. 

Deadlock shrugged. “Sometimes I offer. You know, after the Starscream drama. I don’t always mind doing a favour for a friend. Back when we were more like friends than commander and senior officer.” He peered up into Ratchet’s face. “It didn’t feel anything like it felt with you. But it was all right. Or it used to be.” Deadlock’s brow furrowed. “Now that I’m with you, I don’t want to do that with him any more. And now that Megatron and Starscream are on the verge of starting a civil war, he’s changed. He’s…crueler.” 

Ratchet had always found Megatron to be plenty cruel enough. 

Deadlock wasn’t done. “More self-centered. And less willing to entertain other points of view. I don’t know if he’d be willing to accept no as an answer. Even if I had a conjunx.” 

“I thought you just said most Decepticons weren’t looking for a conjunx endura.” 

“Doesn’t mean we don’t respect the institution. Mech with a conjunx, he’s off limits unless someone is making one serious power play.” 

Ratchet felt sick. “Everything comes back to power with you people.” 

“Maybe.” Deadlock reached out for Ratchet’s hand and tugged his arm away from his chest. “If anyone’s bothering you, Ratch, just let me know. I’d do the ritus with you. Then they’d leave you alone for sure.” 

“That has got to be the least romantic proposal I’ve ever heard of in my life.” 

Deadlock blinked, looking genuinely startled. “Not where I’m from. Putting yourself on the line to protect someone else? What greater love is there than that?” 

Ratchet gave up on trying to hug himself. An idea tickled the back of his mind. He used his free hand to stroke his chin—or tried. His joints locked and he ended up jabbing himself under the jaw. Deadlock didn’t seem to notice. The Decepticon’s gaze was fixed on Ratchet’s optics. 

Ratchet tried to keep his tone light, in denial of his dawning suspicion. “So that graffiti on my clinic back in Rodion…” 

Deadlock looked sheepish. “Yeah. And you wouldn’t believe the razzing I took for it.” 

Ratchet’s idea crystallized into beautiful, terrible life. 

_Love._

Ratchet might have been dabbling with a dangerous affair, but Drift was more serious than Ratchet had ever imagined. To Drift, this relationship wasn’t a cruel game or even a frivolous entertainment. 

“You,” Ratchet said slowly, “really have had a thing for me for a very long time, haven’t you?” 

When Deadlock nodded, his expression was almost shy. 

Ratchet honestly didn’t know how to feel about this revelation. He ought to be concerned. Three million years was a very long time to carry a torch for someone you’d hardly seen in the intervening years. Most people would have gotten over it and moved on. He feared that the “Ratchet” in Deadlock’s head was a fantasy, projected over him. He worried about what would happen when the fantasy and the reality didn’t line up. 

But another part of him was honestly touched. It was more than an appeal to vanity, though Ratchet had to admit he felt flattered that someone found him attractive, despite his square shape and his failing hands. There was something truly sweet about Drift’s devotion. Something redemptive in Deadlock’s protectiveness, if only those skills could be turned to defending the innocent. 

Or maybe it was just that Ratchet didn’t have that much room to talk. He might have moved on, had lovers and other crushes, but it wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought about Drift from time to time, and wished him well, wherever he was. Ratchet admitted that might have been the upper limit of his ability to show interest. He’d let a lot of friendships, not to mention his conjunx, slip away from him through his own neglect. Buried in his work, life passed him by until a crisis jarred him from his introspection or until, more often, he just happened to look up and realize that things were no longer as he remembered. 

“I know you don’t feel the same,” Deadlock said quietly. 

Ratchet squeezed Deadlock’s hand. He lowered his frozen hand from his face and laid it overtop of Deadlock’s. “I need time. That’s what courtship is for. Time for me to see if this attraction and affection turns into that kind of love.” He swallowed. “Time for you to see if I measure up to the fantasy of me you’ve kept in your head for three million years.” 

Deadlock squeezed back. “It still feels good when you touch me,” he said hesitantly. 

“Then we’re off to a good start,” Ratchet replied. 

He almost stopped there. The words in his head…well, he really couldn’t say them out loud, could he?   
Yet he couldn’t explain why not. Why shouldn’t he say what he was really feeling? All he had was a vague sense that _it wasn’t done_. 

Maybe he would still be friends with Wheeljack if he’d actually acted on all those times he felt he should call him up for a drink. Maybe Flatline wouldn’t have joined the Cons if Ratchet had reached out to him the way he’d meant to. 

Ratchet didn’t dare think right now how much of his failed marriage was his own fault and how much was Pharma’s. Absolutely Ratchet was not to blame for the flaws that led Pharma to choose Tarn of all people over him. Still, Ratchet couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if he’d been more attentive, less impatient, more affectionate, less stubborn. No, he couldn’t think about this now. He could run himself in circles for weeks thinking on these things and end up no further ahead. 

His future was right here in front of him. 

“When I said you were special,” Ratchet began, “I meant it.” 

Deadlock raised an optic ridge. “That wasn’t a line you said to all the leakers on your slab?” 

“No. I…” The more Ratchet spoke, the more easily the words came. “There was just something about you that drew me to you.” 

“But you turned me down when I offered to let you frag me.” Deadlock was wary. 

“I couldn’t accept that offer. Ethically. Do you understand why?” 

“Because I was your patient?” Deadlock frowned. “Deathsaurus has the same rule here. Requiem says he agrees, even if he doesn’t seem interested in ‘facing. Requiem complained about me being listed as your patient. Made me change my shipboard doctor to Glit. I don’t get it.” 

“It’s about power differential.” Ratchet paused. “Maybe it wouldn’t make sense to the average Con. But it was…has to be…a dealbreaker for me. Always.” 

Deadlock shrugged. 

“There were other reasons,” Ratchet said quietly. 

“I was still an addict,” Deadlock guessed. 

Maybe. Ratchet wasn’t sure. Yes, he’d known it would be unwise to get involved with someone just beginning to get clean. He just didn’t know if that would have been enough to stop him, if he’d been single at the time. 

“I was seeing someone,” Ratchet admitted. 

Deadlock reached up with his free hand and gently placed it on Ratchet’s cheek. “That’s another Autobot reason. You know I’d take whatever I can get from you.” 

Ratchet swallowed, feeling a glitch in his voxcoder. His voice cracked when he said, “I want a relationship that’s all or nothing.” 


	8. The Thing We Wanted Most

Chapter 8: The Thing We Wanted Most 

Deadlock had not wanted to think about Megatron tonight. Megatron really shouldn’t be a factor. He was lightyears away, obsessed with Starscream, and the cause of Deadlock’s current problems. 

But Ratchet had fixated on the fear of “sharing” Deadlock with Megatron. As if there was ever sharing involved where Megatron was concerned. Megatron would have what he wanted, and everyone else settled for what was left over. The fact that Megatron rarely showed that kind of desire for Deadlock any longer didn’t seem to be much comfort to Ratchet. Ratchet wanted a relationship that was all or nothing. Typical Autobot. Focused on how things ought to be in an ideal world, rather than in the real world. No wonder they’d lost the war. 

“I want to believe in the sort of perfect world where that’s possible.” Deadlock winced after he said it. He’d wanted to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but his words sounded caustic, even to him. “Ratchet, can we please not think about this tonight? I want tonight to be about us. You and me and whatever we’re turning into together. I don’t want to think about Megatron or the DJD or whatever’s going to happen to…to _us _when this quest is over.” 

“I suppose we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” Ratchet squeezed Deadlock’s hand tightly. “First we should sort out...how did you put it? What you and I together is turning into?” 

Deadlock nodded, feeling an unutterable sense of relief. His problems would still loom over him tomorrow, but for tonight, for a little while, the only world that existed was one with just himself and Ratchet in it. He wished he could live in it forever. It felt…_right_. Like he belonged here. 

Deadlock wished he could enjoy that feeling a little longer. Instead, his mind spun as he tried to think of what to say next. His brain circuits throbbed. He felt as though he needed a few hours just to parse what Ratchet had told him, let alone come up with a response. 

Fortunately, there was something they could do to fill the time while Deadlock got his thoughts in order. “Hey, you wanna feed me the next fuel packet?” 

“Sure, kid.” Ratchet’s voice was quiet, subdued. Maybe he wanted time to think as well. 

Deadlock shifted, allowing Ratchet to get up and retrieve the fuel. When the medic returned to the berth, Deadlock settled himself in Ratchet’s lap, leaning back against Ratchet’s chest. Ratchet’s left arm curved over Deadlock’s midsection. Deadlock didn’t bother taking the fuel from Ratchet’s right hand. He just curved his lips around the straw and let Ratchet feed him. 

He felt warm and safe, but he couldn’t shake the realization that this arrangement was temporary. All his worries were right up in his face, making it hard for him to enjoy the sweetness of the moment. Was it even worth enjoying something good when he’d just get hurt when it got torn away from him—as it inevitably would? 

Perhaps Ratchet was just another drug. Another pleasure where he’d be better off if he’d never tasted it at all. 

Too late now. Deadlock drank deeply from the fuel packet and listened to his medic’s fuel pump thrumming under him. 

Nothing good would happen when the Lost Night’s quest was over. Deadlock had toyed with the idea of bringing Ratchet along with him when he joined the DJD. Deadlock was sure he had enough rank—and enough of Megatron’s favour—to ask for such a concession. Maybe the work would be bearable if he had Ratchet to comfort him. Perhaps Ratchet’s presence would be enough to counteract Tarn’s bad influence and the easy availability of Nuke. 

Deadlock swallowed a big gulp of fuel and realized he could never bring Ratchet along with him. 

Ratchet could _never _cope with daily life in the presence of the Decepticon Justice Division. Their activities were the absolute opposite of Ratchet’s values as a medic: a soother of pain, a saver of lives. Deadlock could never ask Ratchet to suffer that way just so he could keep his medic at his side. When the quest was over, Deadlock would have to find Ratchet somewhere safe to live. 

_That _ would be Deadlock’s focus for the rest of the journey. Not finding the Knights of Cybertron, not being Megatron’s optics and audios on the _Lost Night_, and not keeping the peace between Deathsaurus and Thunderwing. Deadlock’s mission was to find the best possible future for his medic. 

The task wouldn’t be easy, but Deadlock felt better having made that resolution. He knew what he needed to do, now. 

He felt himself relaxing into Ratchet’s arms. It would be okay for him to enjoy himself in the meantime. As long as he made sure Ratchet had a good time, too. 

Deadlock was well aware what _that _would involve, but he felt at peace with the decision. But before he could say anything, Ratchet spoke. 

“I promise I’ll keep my head down, keep my place, and not do anything to cause problems for you.” 

Deadlock opened his mouth in surprise. The straw slipped from between his lips. He twisted around in Ratchet’s lap so he could see his medic’s face. 

Ratchet’s optics were lowered as he continued. “There’s a lot of things about Decepticon culture that I don’t like, but just because I don’t agree with it doesn’t mean I can pretend that it doesn’t have repercussions for both of us. I’m not going to cause problems for you – for _us _– by flaunting the norms around here. I’ll mind my manners, so you don’t need to worry about getting pulled into fights on my behalf.” 

“Heh.” Deadlock studied Ratchet’s face. “You should worry about yourself.” 

Ratchet turned his head away. “Not a lot to lose.” 

Instinct prickled a warning up Deadlock’s back. He grabbed Ratchet’s wrists, remembering at the last second not to grip too tightly. “Are you telling me that if I hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t even care what happened to you on this ship?” 

Ratchet inhaled deeply. When his optics met Deadlock’s, their light was steely and cold. “Deadlock. My hands are failing. My career as a medic is going to be over very soon. And when that happens I will have nothing left to contribute to the Decepticons. I’m all too aware of what that means for my future.” 

Deadlock’s mind raced. Couldn’t Ratchet simply swap his old hands out for replacements? Deadlock was sure he’d feel stupid if he asked. If it was that easy, Ratchet would have already done it. His mind raced. There had to be a factor he wasn’t seeing. “_Why_ can’t you just get a new set of hands?” 

“From where? They don’t _make _hands like these. All the best medics are Forged.” 

“So we find someone Forged who doesn’t need his hands as much as you do.” It was such an obvious and simple solution that Deadlock couldn’t believe Ratchet hadn’t already thought of it. 

“_Deadlock. _I can’t just kill someone and take his hands.” 

“Why not?” 

Ratchet let out a long sigh. “Didn’t we just have a conversation about differing concepts of right and wrong and…Deadlock, you have to _promise _me you won’t commit murder so I can have an upgrade.” 

Deadlock’s expression must have betrayed his feelings, because Ratchet wriggled in Deadlock’s grasp and took hold of Deadlock’s forearms. For all his hands were failing, the hold in his right hand was still plenty firm—firm enough to convey Ratchet’s vehememce. Yet the grip in his left hand was weak and easily broken. 

“If that’s really what you want,” Deadlock said skeptically. He’d gladly gut Spinister or Glit or hell, he’d even make a go for creepy old Requiem if Ratchet wanted him to. 

“Humour me. I can’t ethically accept someone else dying so I can keep my job.” 

Deadlock made one final attempt. “Wouldn’t help if I said I didn’t have to _kill _him, would it?” 

“I’m not stealing someone else’s hands.” 

“Fine. I promise.” Deadlock would promise Ratchet anything, even if he didn’t understand why it mattered so much. “No killing, no theft to fix you.” 

Ratchet vented, hard. He still looked worried. It occurred to Deadlock that maybe Ratchet thought _Deadlock _wouldn’t want him any more when he had less functional hands. 

“Hey,” Deadlock said, as gently as he knew how. “I’m gonna look after you. It’s not your hands I want. And when you _do _need new ones—even if you have to downgrade—I’ll help you learn to make the most of them.” 

“I don’t know what kind of life I’m going to have without my job,” Ratchet whispered. 

Deadlock added that to his list of things he had to do on this quest. He’d set Ratchet up with a whole new life. 

“We’re doing it again,” Deadlock whispered as he let go of Ratchet’s wrists. 

“Huh?” 

“Getting ahead of ourselves. We’re supposed to be living in the moment tonight.” Deadlock didn’t blame Ratchet for slipping back into his worries. They both had a lot hanging over their heads. But Deadlock had already thought of the perfect distraction. “Let me help you out with that, Ratch. I wanna open my valve panel for you. Want you to do stuff to me.” 

He felt his medic tense underneath him. Then Ratchet’s hand returned to softly stroking Deadlock’s thigh. “I thought you didn’t like valve play.” 

He said it as though it would be okay if Deadlock _never _let him frag him in the valve. Deadlock wondered how long that would last. 

Unless… 

“Is that how you like it? All the time?” Deadlock had never thought of his medic as a pervert, but maybe… 

Ratchet had liked it tonight, hadn’t he? 

“I like a lot of things in the berth,” Ratchet said. “Is that shocking for a Decepticon?” 

“Less so on Deathsaurus’s ship,” Deadlock replied. 

“Oh?” 

“Everyone knows the captain likes it in the valve. Thunderwing’s people laugh about it behind Deathsaurus’s back.” 

“But not to his face.” 

“His face is full of teeth.” 

“Yeah, I did his medical exam. I counted them. All three rows.” 

“And he’s not above biting off the occasional body part from annoying people. Usually not heads.” 

“Usually.” 

“Unless someone’s really asking for it.” 

Ratchet sighed. “Is this the _raging deviant _part you were talking about?” 

“The liking it in the valve, or the biting off heads?” 

“The Autobot in me already knows biting off heads is deviant.” 

“Maybe by your standards.” Deadlock paused. “Though I guess the eating them afterwards part is pretty bad, even by ours.” 

“Primus preserve us,” Ratchet muttered in a very non-religious kind of way. 

“But yeah. Deathsaurus likes the wrong kind of interface, he doesn’t care who knows, he doesn’t care what they think, and if they try to do anything to him based on that knowledge, he gets bitey.” 

“Is violence the only language Cons understand?” 

Deadlock ignored the dig. “Anyone tries to push anyone else into doing stuff in the berth on Deathsaurus’s ship, and he gets bitey. Don’t let the easygoing attitude fool you. He’s very accepting until you cross his lines and then all hell breaks loose.” 

Ratchet groaned. “I don’t know whether to be glad our captain is one of the few Cons with some concept of bodily autonomy, or to be worried that it all seems to go out the window when his predator drive kicks in.” 

An idea occurred to Deadlock. “Right. You and the Captain believe in the same thing there. That means I shouldn’t push you to use your spike if you don’t like doing that. You won’t lose respect for me if I don’t press for my due.” 

“Never said I don’t like it,” Ratchet replied. 

Deadlock wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or concerned. 

“I said I like a lot of things,” Ratchet clarified. 

“So why the reluctance?” Deadlock’s throat clenched with a sudden, terrifying feeling that Ratchet thought he was ugly, or worse, tainted. Ratchet never, ever said anything about liking Deadlock’s looks, even though Deadlock knew full well he was one hot piece of aft. Worse, Ratchet had seen Deadlock—_Drift—_at his worst. Maybe he couldn’t shake the image of that passed-out leaker, blasted out of his mind on circuit speeders. Or maybe he’d seen the wear and tear on that leaker’s valve during his examination while Drift was out of it. Maybe it disgusted him. Deadlock supposed he couldn’t blame Ratchet for not wanting to touch his valve now. Three million years couldn’t wash away the memories of what Drift had done. 

But the expression on Ratchet’s face was not one of disgust. “You don’t,” he said softly. “That’s why the reluctance. It’s no good for me if it’s no good for you.” 

“But I don’t rev.” 

Ratchet gently touched Deadlock’s cheek, as if to say the matter was settled. 

Deadlock suddenly realized that he didn’t feel that the matter was settled at all. “I meant when I said I didn’t mind doing favours for friends,” he said desperately. “That’s got to go double for courtmates, right?” 

“Dr…_Deadlock_…what are you saying?” Ratchet’s hand stilled. “What do you want?” 

Deadlock struggled to find words for what he wanted. “If you’re gonna behave yourself in public for me, then in private, I should put out for you.” 

Ratchet grimaced. Deadlock felt frustrated. It seemed as though no matter what he tried to say, it always came out wrong, and got Ratchet angry or frustrated or worse. 

“It’s not a transaction,” Ratchet argued, “and…” 

Deadlock cut him off. “Damn it, why do you always act like this every time I try to explain things to you?” 

Ratchet vented hard, clenching his hands. Deadlock eyed his fists, but they stayed safely at Ratchet’s sides, where they’d be useless for actually hitting anything. Or anyone. 

“Let me try again,” Ratchet said, his voice tight. “When you think about me accepting that offer, how does it make you feel?” 

Deadlock blinked. He thought, choosing his words carefully. “Satisfied. Like we’d have a solid arrangement. Like we’d both get the thing we wanted most.” 

Ratchet paused, as though he, too, was thinking it over. “And if I said no, how would you feel?” 

“Like I was taking advantage of you.” 

Ratchet’s optics flashed in surprise. “How do you figure that?” 

“Well, if I ask you to do something because you maybe don’t love the idea but it’ll make me feel better, then it’s only fair for me to do the same, right? Otherwise it’s not an equal relationship. It’s me in authority over you. Or, from the Autobot point of view, it’s me bullying you, and I…I don’t want that. Because _you _don’t want that. Right?” 

Ratchet vented again. This wasn’t an Autobot ship, and the people here didn’t follow Autobot rules. “Right.” 


	9. The Rules

Chapter Nine: The Rules 

“I want to open my valve panel for you,” Deadlock said. 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. He hadn’t expected this offer. From the way Deadlock talked about valve interface, it didn’t sound as though he liked it much at all. Ratchet let his skepticism show on his face, offering Drift a way out. 

Deadlock didn’t take it. He doubled down instead, looking Ratchet in the optics and speaking his next words like a challenge. “And I want you to do stuff to me.” 

Ratchet could think of a few examples of stuff he might like to try with Deadlock, except for one inescapable problem: Ratchet was pretty sure that Deadlock wouldn’t want to try it with him. Or anyone else, for that matter. 

But Deadlock was insistent that they do it anyway, and when Ratchet finally reined in his temper long enough to listen to the kid, he found out why. Deadlock had asked Ratchet to follow Decepticon social conventions in public. Ratchet had made no secret of how he felt about those conventions. But Deadlock had explained the repercussions of breaking them, and Ratchet had grudgingly admitted that keeping himself and Deadlock safe was more important. 

Still, Deadlock knew that Ratchet wasn’t happy with the situation. So he’d thrown in valve play to sweeten the pot. 

Ratchet had intended to decline, but Deadlock got upset. From Deadlock’s point of view, if they were going to have an equal relationship, it required equal concessions from both parties. Otherwise, Deadlock would just be a superior bullying his subordinate. And Deadlock was right. Ratchet didn’t want a relationship where he was both the social and sexual subordinate to a superior officer. 

So Ratchet had agreed to the exchange—on one condition. Deadlock had to tell him if he didn’t like something. The deal was to initiate valve play, not necessarily to carry it to whatever conclusion Ratchet had in mind. 

It should have been sexy, watching Deadlock lay down on the berth, open his legs, and rest his hand on his valve panel. But Ratchet could only hope that Deadlock would keep his promise and speak up if he wasn’t comfortable. Some part of his mind wondered if this was how Deadlock—Drift—had looked in the Dead End, trading his one remaining asset for drugs, fuel, shelter, or security. Deadlock’s face was schooled into a fixed neutrality, betraying nothing of the thoughts behind his optics. 

“C’mon,” Deadlock said. “It’s time to do stuff to me.” 

Ratchet sighed. “Kid, the fact that you can’t articulate what _stuff _you want me to do isn’t boding well here.” 

Deadlock dropped his gaze and his expression turned sheepish. “You’ll get mad if I say it with crude words. I, um, I don’t know if I know any not-crude words.” He glanced up at Ratchet from under the shadow of his helm. “It’s not like it matters so much what you do. Do stuff you’re into.” 

“Deadlock,” Ratchet said, trying hard to keep his voice gentle. “I know you don’t like valve play. Why are you doing this?” 

“Maybe it’s not that I don’t like it.” Deadlock sat up and braced his hands on his hips, but despite his aggressive gesture, he looked off to the side when he added, “Maybe I just haven’t liked it _yet_.” 

Ratchet began to get an idea of Deadlock’s motivations. “Because you know I’ll be gentle?” 

Deadlock looked up at him again. The shadow of his helm cast his optics into darkness. Two points of red light in a sea of murky grey. “Because it’s _you. _You said it’s different when it’s with someone you like. Maybe this’ll be different too.” 

_I don’t rev_ . Ratchet realized this situation was more complicated than just Deadlock’s prior partners being oblivious to any pleasure save their own. He also felt the pressure to handle this right, because if he didn’t, there was more than just his position on this Decepticon ship that was on the line. Deadlock’s psyche felt like a delicate glass ball in Ratchet’s failing hands. 

Ratchet drew a deep breath. A lot of mechanisms wouldn’t want a relationship with this many complications. But he had been the Autobots’ Chief Medical Officer, and the Primes had never come to him with the _easy _cases. 

“All right,” Ratchet said cautiously. “If we do this, and you _don’t _like it, then what happens?” 

Deadlock frowned. “Least I’d know,” he muttered. 

Ratchet reminded himself not to infantalize Deadlock. Trauma or no, the mech knew his mind. If he said he wanted to try this with his courtmate, Ratchet had to be ready to believe that he meant it. 

Ratchet went out and took Deadlock’s hands. “There’s going to be conditions on this.” 

Deadlock rolled his optics. “Why you gotta make fragging so complicated? I lie down, pop my panel and you go at it.” 

“No,” Ratchet said firmly. “If you really want this the way you say you do, then you’re going to sit down and listen to my conditions. If there’s anything you can’t accept, then we both forget about it and lie down and go to recharge.” 

“Wow,” Deadlock said, but just as Ratchet felt his hackles rising, Deadlock took a seat next to him. Ratchet could feel warmth from his frame—not the heat of arousal, but the pleasing warmth of another living mechanism at his side. Ratchet supposed he could forgive Deadlock the urge to mouth off; it had to be hard for the brash Decepticon to do as an Autobot asked him, and if it took a few smart remarks to get Deadlock to cooperate, Ratchet would take it. 

“Okay,” Ratchet said. “First rule is, if you don’t like it, you tell me.” 

Deadlock stared at him. “But…” Ratchet hesitated, confused. Deadlock sighed and spelled it out. “If I tell you I don’t like it, then what happens?” 

“Then I stop. Immediately.” 

Deadlock suddenly looked immensely relieved. “I didn’t think you were the kind to get off on a partner who didn’t like something, but it’s good to hear it.” 

Ratchet felt his fuel tank turn over at the thought. “No. _Never_.” 

Deadlock squeezed his hand. It helped Ratchet forget the awful thoughts and focus on the present. 

“Rule two,” Ratchet said. “No hiding you don’t like something to try to make me happy.” 

Deadlock pressed his lips together. “What if you’re really into it though?” 

“I meant what I said, kid.” 

Ratchet saw Deadlock flinch. With a sudden flash of insight, he knew what would come next. Deadlock’s Decepticon pride would demand a violent retort. Or perhaps it was more primal than that. A gutter mech would have learned to hide his fear with aggression. 

So before Deadlock could make his hostile response, Ratchet reached out and caught Deadlock’s jaw in his free hand. 

Deadlock’s mouth, already opening, emitted a burst of sound not identifiable as a word, because Deadlock cut it off mid-speaking. 

“I told you,” Ratchet murmured. “It’s no good for me if it’s not good for you too.” He tried to get his hand to squeeze Drift’s, but his fingers locked up. He had to settle for using his arm to move his hand back and forth in Drift’s grip instead. “This relationship demands that we be honest with each other.” 

“You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you?” 

Ratchet glowered at him in a way that told Deadlock that, yes, Ratchet absolutely was going to be stubborn about this. “The arrangement is you show me your valve and let me try some things. _Start _some things. If you don’t like them, you tell me and we stop. Period. I need you to agree to this or otherwise, no deal.” 

“Okay,” Deadlock said. “That it for your rules?” 

“No, but you’ll like the third one,” Ratchet said, with a small smile and much happier thoughts. He released Deadlock’s jaw and stroked his cheekguard. “You also have to promise you’ll tell me if you _do _ like it.” 

“How’s this, then. I promise not to give you the regular show.” Deadlock must have seen Ratchet’s frown, because he elaborated. “The regular show is the whole moaning and sighing act. You don’t get the show. So if I say I like it, you know I mean it. That it’s not just part of the performance.” Deadlock bit his lip. “That there _is _no performance.” 

Ratchet felt his lips curve. “Yeah. That’s what I’d like. Finally, rule four.” 

“About time,” Deadlock grumbled, but there was no venom in his voice. 

“Rule four is that you’re allowed to change your mind.” 

Deadlock tilted his head. 

“That’s right. If we start doing something, and you decide you don’t like it, or it felt good and then it didn’t, you should tell me to stop. You can say stop doing that just for now, or stop doing that forever. And you don’t have to pick which right away. It doesn’t even matter if you liked it to start with. You can change your mind.” 

“Okay. Do I get to make rules?” Deadlock asked. 

Ratchet smiled. “Yeah, kid.” 

“Weird,” Deadlock said, but he said it with his optics locked on Ratchet’s face, like he’d just had some kind of divine vision. It would have been sweet if it wasn’t so _intense_. Ratchet once again had that thought that being with Deadlock was going to involve a lot of responsibility. Whatever there was between them was absolutely not a casual fling. Yet the future hung before them, unknown and ominous. 

Deadlock interrupted Ratchet’s thoughts before he could contemplate what might happen to the two of them when the quest was over. When Ratchet got sent to teach, after his hands failed, and Deadlock got sent to join the DJD. Ratchet was going to have to do some serious thinking about what he was willing to do, and what he was willing to ask Deadlock to do, in order to escape the future that lay before them. 

But tonight, all Ratchet needed to think about was how to show his partner comfort, and perhaps even pleasure. 

“Okay, here’s my rule,” Deadlock said. “You have to hold me after.” 

“Sure. Happy to.” 

“Oh. Also a second rule.” Deadlock shot Ratchet a glower, as though daring him to disagree, but Ratchet smiled instead. Rattled, Deadlock said, “You have to tell me if I did a good job.” He seemed to sense Ratchet’s frown, because he pressed on, “Or you like my valve, or you like to frag me. Stuff like that.” 

“I can do that,” Ratchet agreed. He realized that Deadlock was asking for praise. Ratchet wouldn’t lie, but he was pretty sure he could find some nice things to say about Deadlock. 

“All right.” Deadlock drew in a deep breath. “So if we’re all agreed, let’s get this happening. Where and how do you want me?” 

The berth was the obvious answer, but Ratchet wasn’t quite ready to get Deadlock on his back. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Oh, Primus, what now?” Deadlock asked. His optic roll was probably intended to convey impatience, but Ratchet was willing to bet it masked an urge to get the experience done with quickly. Unfortunately for Deadlock, Ratchet had other plans. 

“You ever seen your own valve?” 

Deadlock blinked. “Kind of? I mean, it’s hard to get a good angle on down there from up here, you know?” He lowered his chin to his chest to indicate the difficulty. 

“How about in a mirror?” 

Deadlock’s optics flicker again. “No. I don’t think I have.” 

“Do you want to?” 

Deadlock tilted his head. “You putting this choice on me? You’re the perv who came up with the idea.” 

Ratchet shrugged. “This isn’t about getting me off. This is about whether you’ll feel better if you’re able to see precisely what I’m doing. No surprises.” 


End file.
